"JUST    FOLKS" 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •   BOSTON  •    CHICAGO 
-ATLANTA  ■    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •  BOMBAY  ■  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


64 


JUST    FOLKS" 


BY 


CLARA   E.    LAUGHLIN 


AUTHOR  OF   "  FELICITY,"   "  EVERYBODY  'S   LONESOME,11   "  THE 
EVOLUTION  OF  A   GIRL^   IDEAL,11   ETC.,  ETC. 


"  Problem  ?  "  said  Liza  Allen.  "  Shucks  !  Folks 
ain't  no  problem  if  you  really  know  'em  —  they're 
just  folks^ 


•  »    * 
»  »   •  • 


Nefo  gork 
THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

1910 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright  by 

S.   S.   McCLURE    COMPANY, 

1907,  1908,  1910. 

AINSLIE'S  MAGAZINE,  1909. 

Copyright,  1910, 
By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  October,  1910. 


Norfooob  tyttzt 

J.  8.  Cushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


TO 
THE    RADIANT    MEMORY    OF 

ELIZABETH   B.    BROWNELL 


912908 


JUST  FOLKS 


On  her  way  over  from  the  Juvenile  Court 
Building,  on  Ewing  Street  east  of  Halsted,  Beth 
Tully  stopped  at  the  arched  entrance  to  Hull 
House  quadrangle  and  looked  in ;  then,  drawn 
by  a  beauty  which  never  failed  to  thrill  her,  she 
passed  into  the  court  and  stood  gazing  about 
her.  Little  Beth,  who  with  all  her  appealing 
femininity  had  certain  boyish  graces  and  sundry 
boyish  gifts,  could  have  thrown  a  stone  through 
that  archway  and  hit  a  clattering  wagon  or  clang- 
ing car  passing  on  Halsted  Street ;  yet  one  felt 
many  miles  aloof  from  Halsted  Street  in  this 
lovely  spot  suggestive  of  some  ancient  close  or 
cloister  from  the  far  world  overseas.  The  gray 
stone  terrace  outside  the  residents'  dining-hall 
was  as  grateful  to  beauty-starved  senses  as  a 
bit  of  Italy ;  and  everything  in  the  quadrangle 
was  full  of  peace. 

Beth  thought  wistfully,  for  a  moment,  of  that 
dining-hall  with  its  beautiful,  restful  dimensions, 
its  peculiarly  lovely  paper  of  cool,  pale  gray,  its 
rich,   dark  woodwork  and  furniture,   its  bright 


2  JUST  FOLKS 

spots  of  shining  copper  and  brass,  its  great  open 
fireplace  and  huge  chimney.  She  had  dined 
at  those  long  tables  of  mahogany  whereat  the 
residents  sat  and  where  there  were  always  guests, 
famous  and  otherwise  ;  and  she  had  delighted 
in  the  beauty  of  the  surroundings,  and  in  the 
clever  conversation  she  heard  on  a  hundred  sub- 
jects close  to  her  heart.  It  was  like  the  refec- 
tory of  some  ancient  hospice,  that  dining-hall : 
there  gathered  the  brotherhood  consecrate  to 
the  succor  of  perishing  mankind  ;  there  they  ate 
and  drank  and  talked  of  the  world  outside ; 
there  they  entertained  the  travelling  brother 
from  other  hospice  or  monastery ;  thence  they 
emerged,  on  call  from  without  or  inner  urging, 
to  minister  to  the  needy  round  about ;  and 
thither  they  returned  from  ministering,  to  sit 
again  around  the  shining  tables  of  the  refectory, 
while  good  cheer  passed  and  passed  again,  and 
the  ruddy  firelight  played  on  burnished  copper 
and  brass. 

Beth  looked  up  at  the  apartments  which  line 
three  sides  of  this  court,  and  swift  mental  pic- 
tures came  to  her  of  the  comfort,  the  refinement, 
the  charm  that  was  in  this  apartment  and  in  that, 
and  that.  Residents  who  were  able  to  take 
long  leases  had  had  a  hand  in  the  designing  of 
the  apartment  they  were  to  occupy;  and  even 
where  choice  had  not  gone  so  far  as  this,  delight- 
ful   individuality    was    expressed    and    perfect 


JUST  FOLKS  3 

adaptation  of  surroundings  to  needs  was  attained 
in  the  furnishings.  Of  course,  Beth  reminded 
herself,  she  could  never  have  afforded  an  apart- 
ment, if  she  had  come  to  Hull  House.  Suppos- 
ing she  had  applied  for  admission  as  a  resident 
and  had  been  accepted,  she  could  only  have  been 
of  those  who  have  a  single  room  in  the  quarter 
for  women  ;  not  hers,  by  any  chance,  an  ingle- 
nook  in  a  book-lined  room  whose  dormer  win- 
dows overlooked  the  peace-inspiring  close  ;  not 
hers  the  pleasure  of  receiving  charming  friends 
in  a  long  living-room  rich  in  artistic  trophies 
from  a  dozen  lands  ;  not  hers  the  girlish  fun  of  a 
perfectly  appointed  kitchenette  whereat  to  con- 
coct toothsome  things  not  on  the  bill  of  fare  in 
the  great  dining-hall ;  not  hers  the  luxury  of 
lying  down  to  sleep,  nights,  in  a  quaintly  pretty 
chamber,  and  rising  to  step  into  a  bathroom  all 
chastely  white  with  marble  and  with  porcelain. 
A  salary  of  #75  a  month  is  never  adequate  to 
things  like  this,  especially  when  one  must  put 
by  a  little  in  case  of  accident  or  illness,  and 
" another  little"  to  send  a  bit  of  luxury  home 
now  and  then  ;  and  most  especially  when  one's 
work  is  such  that  never  a  day  passes  in  which 
there's  no  urgent  tugging  at  one's  heartstrings 
—  so  urgent  that  it's  not  always  possible  to  keep 
one's  purse-strings  tied. 

But    more   than    compulsory   economy   made 
little  Beth  decide  Hull  House  was  not  for  her. 


4  JUST  FOLKS 

She  was  a  probation  officer  of  the  Juvenile 
Court,  this  tiny  sprite  of  a  fair-haired  girl  with 
her  direct,  earnest  ways  and  the  sublime  sense  of 
humor  which,  her  dear  father  had  been  wont 
to  say,  "threatened  to  make  her  great."  And 
she  had  reasoned  out  for  herself  that  not  at  Hull 
House,  where  those  far  cleverer  than  she  discussed 
the  poor  as  a  theorem  or  worked  with  the  poor 
as  a  class,  in  a  large,  systematic  way,  could  she 
come  to  such  knowledge  of  the  poor  as  she  sought. 
She  meant  to  keep  in  touch  with  the  splendid 
institution  ;  to  avail  herself  of  many  of  its  privi- 
leges besides  the  coffee  house,  where  she  would 
probably  take  most  of  her  meals ;  to  use  its 
benefits  freely,  not  only  for  herself,  but  for  the 
boys  and  girls  committed  by  the  court  to  her  care. 
But  she  knew  the  attitude  of  the  Nineteenth 
Ward  toward  what  it  regarded  as  the  professional 
benevolence  of  the  Settlement ;  and  she  felt 
that  the  air  of  professionalism  with  which  her 
calling  surrounded  her  —  the  children  called 
her  "de  p'leece  lady"  —  was  more  than  sufficient 
barrier  between  her  and  the  human  nature  of  her 
charges.  So  she  was  determined  to  level  it  as 
much  as  she  could  by  following  out  a  plan  of  her 
own. 

She  had  not  said  a  great  deal  about  that  plan 
in  her  letters  home ;  "the  little  mother"  would 
never  have  understood,  and  would  have  worried 
herself  sick.     She  had  small  enough  idea  at  best, 


JUST  FOLKS  5 

that  little  mother,  of  what  her  Beth  did  as  a  pro- 
bation officer.  Beth  wrote  about  the  boys  com- 
ing to  report  to  her,  and  the  little  mother  thought 
of  Beth  as  sitting  in  judicial  state,  somewhere, 
"like  her  dear  father"  —  Beth's  father  had  been 
a  judge  —  and  the  only  worry  that  harassed 
the  mother's  heart  was  lest  some  of  the  boys 
come  from  infected  homes  and  Beth  might  "catch 
something."  What  she  would  have  thought 
if  she  had  known  how  Beth  went  about  those 
homes,  Beth  did  not  dare  to  imagine.  And 
what  she  would  have  suffered  if  she  had  known 
Beth  was  planning  to  live  in  one  of  them,  was 
best  kept  out  of  mind.  For  there  was  opposition 
enough  to  encounter  in  Hart  Ferris,  who  was 
determined  to  marry  Beth,  some  day  when  his 
present  job  as  a  reporter  had  been  succeeded  by 
an  editorship  and  his  salary  had  increased  in  pro- 
portion ;  and  whom  Beth  meant  probably  to 
marry  some  day  when  her  intense  interest  in  other 
people's  homes  and  lives  and  loves  had  waned 
sufficiently  to  permit  her  to  care  exclusively,  for 
a  while  at  least,  about  a  home  and  life  and  love  of 
her  own.  It  wasn't  that  she  loved  Hart  less, 
but  that  she  loved  humanity  in  the  aggregate 
more.  And  Hart  Ferris  was  accepting,  since  he 
must,  this  attitude  and  biding  his  time  with  no 
more  patience  than  a  fair  masculine  allowance. 
But  he  never  neglected  any  possible  opportunity 
to  protest,  and  with  all  his  might  and  all  his 


6  JUST  FOLKS 

power  he  had  opposed  Beth's  plan  to  live  in  the 
Ghetto. 

"It's  bad  enough  to  have  you  fussing  around 
the  slums  all  day,  without  having  you  eat  and 
sleep  there  too,"  he  had  cried,  angrily. 

Little  Beth,  who  had  known  he  would  say  just 
exactly  this,  opened  her  blue  eyes  wide  as  if  in 
pained  astonishment. 

"  Why,  Hart  Ferris  !  It  was  you  who  first  took 
me  to  the  Juvenile  Court  and  interested  me  in 
probation  officers  ;  you  who  talked  to  me  so 
glowingly  about  the  system  and  what  it  was  doing 
for  the  children,  that  I  could  never  get  the  dream 
of  sharing  in  it  out  my  mind.  You  talked  then 
as  if  you  admired  the  work  ! " 

"So  I  do  now  —  for  other  girls!"  he  had 
answered.  Whereupon  Beth  had  called  him  a 
"primitive  male  person"  and  endeavored  to 
show  him  his  startling  likeness  to  a  "cave  man." 

She  was  in  no  wise  deterred  by  his  opposition, 
but  she  was  not  one  of  those  martyr  souls  whose 
happiness  increases  as  her  way  grows  hard  ;  so 
she  said  little  more  to  him  about  her  intentions, 
and  nothing  at  all  to  any  one  else.  But  here  she 
was,  after  Court,  on  a  sunny  afternoon  in  March 
looking  for  a  place  to  live. 

In  none  of  the  homes  where  her  work  had  called 
her  could  she  think  of  asking  either  for  a  room 
or  for  direction  to  some  one  with  a  room  to  rent. 
So  she  was  trying,  first  of  all  possible  ways,  the 


JUST  FOLKS  7 

way  of  looking  for  the  least  objectionable  streets 
and  the  decentest  houses  on  those  streets,  hoping 
in  the  windows  of  some  of  those  houses  to  see 
the  sign,  Rooms  for  Rent. 

This  afternoon  as  she  left  the  Hull  House 
close,  and  walked  west  (she  knew  of  no  place 
east  of  Halsted  that  was  at  all  possible)  she 
found  herself  —  without  any  particular  inten- 
tion or  design  of  which  she  was  conscious  —  try- 
ing Maxwell  Street ;  perhaps  the  near  proximity 
of  the  police  station  gave  her  a  sense  of  protection, 
as  if  no  really  desperate-intentioned  folk  would 
live  close  beneath  its  shadow.  At  any  rate, 
she  steered  her  course  through  the  hordes  of 
children  playing  on  the  sidewalks,  as  resolutely 
as  if  she  knew  where  she  was  going.  And 
presently  her  searching  eye  caught  sight  of  the 
desired  sign  on  the  door  of  a  decent-looking,  three- 
story  house  whose  ground  floor  was  occupied  by 
a  grocery  and,  behind  the  store,  the  dwelling 
quarters  of  the  grocer,  Monahan.  Close  be- 
side the  grocery,  whose  stock  seemed  so  to  over- 
run the  sidewalk  that  the  store  was  only  a  for- 
mality, was  the  door  bearing  the  sign,  beneath 
which  was  scrawled  in  pencil :  3  floor  front. 
Another  sign  on  the  door  said  :  Fashionable 
Dressmaking.  Liza  Allen.  3  floor  front ;  and 
below  it  was  tacked  —  just  out  of  reach  of 
childish  fingers  unless  the  children  climbed  to 
get  it  —  a  colored  fashion  plate  from  a  popular- 


8  JUST  FOLKS 

priced  magazine.  The  plate  showed  a  lady  of  ex- 
traordinary attenuation,  semi-attired  in  an  Em- 
pire evening  gown  of  pink.  Beth  looked  from  it 
to  the  women  in  the  street ;  most  of  them  were 
Jewish,  and  shapeless  with  fat,  and  the  relation 
of  their  figures  to  that  of  the  lady  in  the  plate, 
of  their  black  wigs  to  the  lady's  elaborate  blonde 
coiffure,  of  their  wrappers  and  sacks  to  her  Em- 
pire attire,  appealed  irresistibly  to  Beth's  sense 
of  humor.  She  wanted  to  see  how  Liza  Allen 
looked,  and  how  she  regarded  her  "fashionable 
dressmaking,"  and  who  patronized  her  in  this 
community.  So  she  opened  the  door  and  stood 
for  a  moment  in  the  little  pocket-size  hallway 
before  starting  up  the  straight,  steep,  dark  stairs. 
The  house  was  of  a  familiar  type,  two  tenants 
on  each  floor  and  four  rooms  constituting  each 
tenement.  The  kitchens  were  in  the  middle  of 
the  house  and  off  each  kitchen  was  a  tiny  bed- 
room. The  "front  room"  of  the  rear  dwellers 
overlooked  the  back  yard,  the  alley,  and  the 
backs  of  houses  on  the  next  street ;  and  off  it 
was  a  small  bedroom.  The  front  room  of  the 
other  tenants  on  each  floor  was  over  the  grocery 
and  overlooked  Maxwell  Street ;  and  off  it  was 
a  small  bedroom.  Beth  had  come  to  know  this 
arrangement  well;  and  the  number  of  doors 
which  confronted  her  in  these  dark  hallways 
and  bore  testimony  to  the  wisdom  of  the  archi- 
tect in  the  ways  of  sub-letting,  never  "fazed"  her. 


JUST  FOLKS  9 

She  climbed  the  second  stairway  now,  feeling 
her  way  rather  than  seeing  it  and,  not  without 
some  pride  in  her  growing  sense  of  discrimination, 
knocked,  not  on  the  kitchen  but  on  the  front 
room  door  of  Liza  Allen's  apartment. 

The]  whir  of  the  sewing-machine  stopped  for 
a  moment,  and  a  woman's  voice  called,  "Come 
in!"  Beth  opened  the  door.  An  old  woman, 
with  snow-white  hair  parted  in  the  middle  and 
"crimped,"  pushed  her  steel-rimmed  spectacles 
up  on  her  forehead  and  regarded  Beth  sociably. 

"  'Scuse  me  fer  not  gettin'  up,"  she  said, 
"but  it's  such  a  bother  droppin'  things  an'  then 
havin'  t'  hunt  'em  all  over  when  you  set  down 
agin." 

"I  know,"  Beth  answered ;  "your  thimble  and 
your  needle  and  your  scissors  and  your  work  — 
seems  as  if  they  were  bewitched,  sometimes, 
doesn't  it  ?  And  how  mad  it  makes  you  to  drop 
them  all  for  nothing  !" 

Liza  nodded  appreciatively ;  evidently  this 
young  woman  was  a  person  of  understanding. 
"Beats  all!"  she  confided,  "what  some  folks'll 
call  a  busy  woman  from  her  work  fer.  But  of 
course  fer  a  customer — " 

"I'm  not  a  customer,"  Beth  interposed.  She 
had  noted  the  wrapper  of  cheap  calico  Liza  Allen 
was  making,  but  she  let  no  glint  of  her  amuse- 
ment escape  her.     "I'm  looking  for  a   room." 

"Well  now  !"  said  Liza,  "you  set  down  an'  I'll 


io  JUST  FOLKS 

tell  you  'bout  mine.  You're  mighty  fortunate 
to  come  along  right  now ;  it  ain't  been  vacant 
but  a  few  days,  and  it  always  gits  snapped  up 
quick  after  I  put  the  sign  out." 

And  such  was  the  contagion  of  Liza's  pride 
that  Beth,  even  before  she  had  seen  the  room 
with  its  washstand  "chiny,"  its  stiffly  starched 
Nottingham  curtains,  and  its  two  pictures  —  "  A 
Yard  of  Pansies"  and  "  Alone,"  issued  by  a  Sun- 
day paper  as  colored  supplements  and  cheaply 
framed  by  a  neighborhood  emporium  as  premi- 
ums —  was  grateful  for  the  happy  chance  which 
brought  her  here  so  opportunely. 

TJie  room,  when  shown,  might  have  seemed  to 
some  scarcely  worthy  Liza's  complacency.  But 
by  the  time  Beth  saw  it,  she  was  so  captivated 
by  Liza  herself  that  she  was  determined  to  have 
the  room  ;  nor  was  weakened  in  her  determina- 
tion when  the  lumpy  little  mattress  on  the  single 
iron  bed  showed  itself  to  be  thinner  than  she  had 
ever  supposed  a  mattress  could  be,  and  the  room 
was  discovered  to  be  as  guiltless  of  closet  or  of 
bureau  as  of  heat  or  other  light  than  that  of 
a  small  glass  lamp. 

Nevertheless,  she  hastened  to  pay  her  "  dollar 
down,  against  the  rent "  — which  was  two  dollars 
a  week  —  and  to  make  her  arrangements  about 
moving  in. 

"I  ain't  never  let  to  no  woman  before,"  said 
Liza  Allen  —  and  Beth's  heart  sank  lest  Liza  be 


JUST  FOLKS  ii 

repentant  of  her  bargain  —  "fer  they're  always 
mussin'  'round  and  interferin'  with  yer  business. 
But  I  guess  you'll  be  all  right  —  " 

"I'll  eat  my  meals  at  Hull  House,"  Beth  has- 
tened to  plead  in  her  own  extenuation,  "  and  send 
all  my  washing  out." 

"Oh,  pshaw  !  no  you  won't  neither,"  Liza  inter- 
posed. "You're  welcome  t'  cook  yer  meals  on  my 
stove,  an'  it  won't  be  any  extry  expense  t'  you. 
The  fire's  got  t'  be  there,  an'  it  might's  well  serve 
two.  Goodness,  no  !  don't  thank  me.  What's 
the  use  o'  livin'  if  you  can't  do  that  much  fer  a 
fella- woman  ?" 

After  she  left  Liza  Allen's,  Beth  reflected,  with 
amusement  at  her  own  expense,  how  she  had  sup- 
posed her  quest  for  a  room  in  that  neighbor- 
hood would  excite  curious  interest ;  how  she 
would  be  questioned  as  to  her  motives  ;  and 
what  a  discreet  little  story  she  would  have  to  tell. 
But  while  Liza  Allen  seemed  to  have  the  live- 
liest interest  in  her  new  tenant's  future  as  in- 
sured by  that  "A  I  room,"  she  showed  no  interest 
at  all  in  her  past  or  how  or  why  she  came  there. 
The  condescension  which  Beth  had  felt,  though 
she  meant  valiantly  to  conceal  it,  had  transferred 
itself  to  Liza  ;  and  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  "get- 
ting in,"  not  one  of  "coming  in,"  that  Beth 
entered  the  Ghetto  as  a  resident. 

She  moved  next  day.  It  was  a  simple  moving 
—  just  a  steamer  trunk,  which  would  fit  under 


12  JUST  FOLKS 

the  bed,  and  a  small  valise.  In  the  trunk 
were  a  few  girlish  knickknacks  with  which  Beth 
hoped  ultimately  to  make  her  new  little  room 
seem  more  truly  her  own  place.  But  she  knew 
she  would  have  to  be  tactful  about  introducing 
these  into  what  Liza  considered  a  chamber 
already  sufficiently  elegant  for  any  mortal  use. 

Liza  made  dresses  for  a  dollar ;  wrappers  for 
fifty  cents.  And  she  had  to  sew  without  ceas- 
ing, it  seemed.  Beth  wondered  a  little,  because 
Liza  had  told  her  the  rent  of  the  four  rooms  was 
ten  dollars  a  month,  and  the  income  from  the 
front  bedroom  was  nearly  nine.  Still,  it  doubt- 
less took  a  great  deal  of  sewing  at  those  modest 
prices  to  buy  coal  and  kerosene  and  the  bit  of 
food  a  lonely  old  body  would  eat.  On  that 
point,  however,  as  on  many  others,  she  was 
destined  soon  to  be  enlightened. 

It  was  dusk  when  she  had  her  few  things  un- 
packed, and  she  was  tired.  She  had  been  up 
late  the  night  before,  packing ;  and  afterwards 
she  had,  in  her  excitement,  slept  but  fitfully. 
Then  there  was  the  day's  work,  and  the  move  into 
new  quarters.  She  felt  little  enough  like  going 
over  to  Hull  House  restaurant  for  her  supper. 

Liza  was  still  sewing,  by  the  light  of  a  lamp 
set  on  her  machine. 

"I  believe  I'll  go  out  and  buy  a  bit  of  some- 
thing," Beth  said  to  her.  "Can  I  get  anything 
for  you  ?" 


JUST  FOLKS  13 

Liza  gave  her  order.  When  Beth  got  back, 
Liza  was  still  bent  over  her  work ;  so  Beth  cooked 
both  suppers.  And  after  supper  she  "cleared 
up."  Then,  strangely  without  any  surprise  to 
herself,  she  began  threading  needles  for  Liza 
while  that  indefatigable  woman  strained  her  poor 
old  eyes  to  do  "finishing"  by  the  feeble  lamp- 
light. 

Then,  quite  naturally,  the  story  of  Liza's 
industry  came  out.  Without  lifting  her  head 
from  the  steady  stitch,  stitch,  she  told  about 
her  debt  and  —  without  meaning  to  —  about 
herself. 

"No,  I  ain't  never  been  married,"  she  said. 
Beth  had  not  asked  her ;  the  subject  was  of  her 
own  introduction.  "But  I  was  mighty  near  it 
once ;  and  goodness  knows  I  always  had  beaus 
a-plenty !  But  there  was  Joe  —  my  brother. 
He  was  that  gifted,  you  wouldn't  believe  !  but 
seems  like  somehow  he  couldn't  never  git  on. 
The  others  married  off,  an'  bimeby  there  was  only 
Joe  an'  me  left  in  the  old  home,  back  in  Ohio, 
an'  I  was  actually  gittin'  ready  at  last  to  marry 
Adam  Spear  that  I'd  kep'  comp'ny  with  for 
thirteen  years.  The  weddin'  day  was  set  an' 
the  weddin'  clo's  was  made  —  didn't  seem,  when 
I  was  sewin'  on  'em,  that  it  could  be  true  they 
was  mine  an'  not  some  other  bride's  like  they'd 
always  been  before  —  when  we  found  that  Joe 
had  got  hisself  into  a  peck  o'  trouble  'bout  some 


14  JUST  FOLKS 

money  he'd  borrowed,  signin'  somethin' ;  an' 
't  seems,"  Liza  went  on  without  reproachfulness, 
"like  he'd  kind  o'  signed  my  name  too.  An' 
'stid  o'  leavin'  Joe  all  hunky-dory  on  his  own 
little  place  an'  him  payin'  me  off  fer  my  share 
like  we'd  laid  out  he  would,  so's  Adam  an'  me 
could  git  a  good  start,  there  wasn't  nothin'  fer 
him  ner  me  !  Course  I  couldn't  leave  Joe  like 
that  —  him  never  bein'  one  t^o  take  responsibil- 
ity fer  himself.  An'  Adam  got  put  out  with  me 
an'  said  if  I  cared  so  much  more  fer  Joe  I  could 
have  him  good  an'  plenty.  So  Adam  he  sold  out 
his  little  business  —  he  was  a  carpenter  —  and 
went  away.  No,  I  never  see  him  again.  An' 
Joe  an'  me,  we  had  pretty  hard  sleddin'  there 
fer  a  while,  till  bimeby  Joe  got  a  notion  that  we'd 
never  git  along  there  and  ought  to  come  here  t' 
Chicago  where  a  man  that  was  gifted  could  git 
some  notice  took  of  him.  So  we  come.  Land  ! 
that  was  in  '70.  We  took  what  the  place'd 
bring,  sellin'  it  quick  like  that  —  Joe  alius 
was  one  to  do  a  thing  quick  when  he  got  the 
notion  —  an'  after  we'd  paid  off  the  rest  o'  the 
debt  we  come  here  an'  bought  a  little  store  where 
we  sold  newspapers  and  tobacco  and  stationery. 
An' — beats  all!  —  if  the  Big  Fire  didn't  come 
along  'fore  we  was  hardly  settled,  an'  wipe  us 
clean  off  the  map.  After  that,  Joe  he  got  dis- 
couraged an'  seemed  like  he  never  could  git 
started  agin.     An'  then  he  —  you  know  how  'tis 


JUST  FOLKS  15 

with  men  when  they  get  that  way  —  he  got  the 
failin',  an'  first  thing  I  know  he  got  took  to  the 
County  one  night  with  both  his  poor  legs  cut  off 
by  a  train.  After  that  it  was  all  off  with  him.  I 
got  him  some  peg-legs  —  they  was  real  expensive, 
too  —  but  he  never  took  to  'em.  So  he'd  jest 
set  here  —  poor  Joe  would  —  an'  watch  me  sew, 
an'  worry  for  fear  he  wouldn't  be  buried  like  a 
gentleman.  'Now  don't  you  goon  like  that,'  I'd 
tell  him  ;  'am  I  the  one  to  see  you  buried  cheap  ? 
you  that  have  always  had  such  high  ambitions  !' 
An'  then  he'd  cheer  up  an'  tell  me  how  he  wanted 
things  done  —  at  the  last,  you  know.  I  never 
see  a  man  so  partikler  about  his  fun'ral  as  Joe 
was.  But  he  had  to  wait  a  long  time  for  it, 
poor  fella  !  Seventeen  years  he  set  an'  thought 
about  it,  afore  it  come  to  pass.  An'  the  last 
couple  o'  years  he  was  awful  ailin'  —  had  the 
doctor  every  week,  almost,  an'  more  med'cine 
than'd  kill  a  camel,  you'd  think.  But  when  he 
come  to  go  he  seemed  real  pleased,  thinkin' 
about  his  fun'ral.  'Tuberoses,  Lizy'  he'd  say. 
'You  remember  ?  An'  white  pinks  —  in  a  pilla  — 
with  "Brother"  on  it  —  in  everlastin's.'  An' 
the  las'  day  —  we  could  be  pretty  sure  it  was  the 
last,  he  was  failin'  so  rapid  —  he'd  keep  mur- 
murin'  'bout  the  everlastin's,  an'  finally  he  sighed, 
an'  I  says,  'What  is  it,  Joe  ?'  an'  he  says,  awful 
wishful,  '  'f  I  could  on'y  see  'em  ! '  —  meanin' 
the  flowers.     An'  thinks  I,  'Why  not  ?'  an'  puts 


16  JUST  FOLKS 

on  my  shawl  an'  goes  over  t'  Blue  Island  an'  had 
the  pilla  made." 

Beth  almost  gasped. 

"An'  you  never  see  any  one  so  pleased,"  Liza 
went  on,  lifting  a  corner  of  her  apron  to  wipe 
her  eyes.  "O'  course  the  pilla  was  some  faded 
by  the  fun'ral  time,  but  I  figgered  there  wasn't 
no  one  there  that  cared  so  much  about  it  as  Joe 
had." 

There  was  sympathetic  silence  for  a  moment. 
Then  :  "It  was  as  handsome  a  fun'ral,  though, 
as  I  ever  lay  eyes  on.  Poor  Joe  !  he  deserved  it. 
You  wouldn't  believe,  jes'  knowin'  me,  what  a 
gifted  man  he  was.  But,  My  Country  !  'tain't 
all  paid  off  yet  —  that  fun'ral !" 

There  was  no  self-pity  in  this  last  admission 
—  indeed  no  !  rather  was  it  full  of  pride  ;  and  the 
needle,  which  had  been  faltering  a  little,  moved 
in  and  out  more  briskly,  as  if  spurred  by  the  con- 
sciousness that  it  was  able  to  afford  Liza  so  hand- 
some a  debt. 

Beth  had  often  deplored  the  extravagant 
funerals  of  the  poor,  but  it  dawned  upon  her  as 
Liza  talked  that  there  may  be  more  than  one 
standard  of  economy,  more  than  one  rule  to 
determine  what  is  worth  while. 

Time  was  —  and  that  only  a  very  little  while 
ago  —  when  she  would  have  felt  impelled  to  help 
lift  the  weight  of  debt  from  Liza's  shoulders,  to 
try  to  atone  to  her  for  all  she  had  foregone.     But 


JUST  FOLKS  17 

tonight !  Even  after  this  so  brief  experience  of 
the  changed  point  of  view  that  had  been  her 
desire  in  coming  to  live  in  the  Ghetto,  she  was 
measuring  the  contentment  of  Liza's  toilsome 
days  against  the  state  of  other  women  immeas- 
urably less  uplifted  by  having  met  a  great  de- 
mand in  a  great  way.  And  as  she  crept  into  her 
little  bed,  she  forgot  how  thin  the  mattress  was, 
in  her  exultant  gratitude  for  having  been  led  to 
Maxwell  Street. 


II 

In  the  morning,  Liza  brought  the  steaming  tea- 
kettle to  Beth's  room  tp  fill  her  "chiny"  wash- 
bowl with  hot  water. 

"Land  sakes,  child  !"  she  exclaimed  when  she 
saw  Beth's  little  nightie,  low-necked  and  short 
of  sleeve;  "is  that  all  you  got  to  cover  your 
poor  little  bones  with  at  night  ?" 

Beth  tried  to  explain  how  hot  was  the  steam- 
heated  bedroom  she  had  occupied  in  the  board- 
ing-house. But  Liza  was  sceptical.  "Flannel- 
ette's the  thing,"  she  declared.  "Goodness ! 
you'll  be  tied  in  a  knot  with  rheumatiz,  time 
you're  forty." 

And,  even  though  spring  was  coming  on,  Beth 
felt  that  she  would  better  get  something  more 
suited  to  Liza's  chill  little  front  room ;  for  in 
March  and  April  and  even  in  May,  there  are 
many  raw  nights  in  Chicago. 

Also,  at  breakfast,  she  was  reminded  of  the  tea- 
pot which  she  had  decided,  the  night  before,  she 
must  purchase.  Liza  liked  black  tea  and  she 
liked  it  "good  an'  strong."  Beth  cared  only  for 
the  mildest  infusion  of  uncolored  Japan.  So  she 
said  she  must  get  herself  a  tiny  tea-pot  and  a 
little  bit  of  tea. 

18 


JUST  FOLKS  19 

There  were  several  other  things  she  needed, 
too.  So  after  breakfast  she  went  over  to  Halsted 
and  Fourteenth  streets  to  what  was  self-styled 
an  emporium. 

There  was  some  consternation  in  the  "empo- 
rium" when  she  asked  to  have  these  things  de- 
livered at  Liza  Allen's.  •  Customers  of  the  em- 
porium furnished  their  own  delivery  service 
nor  would  have  consented  otherwise ;  when  one 
paid  one's  money  out  for  a  thing,  one  wished 
immediate  possession  of  it,  not  only  because 
things  were  seldom  bought  until  long  after  they 
had  begun  to  be  needed,  but  because  one  of 
the  proudest  things  about  shopping  was  to  go 
home  so  bundle-laden  that  the  ever-ready  atten- 
tion of  the  neighborhood  should  be  attracted, 
even  to  the  possibility  of  accumulating  a  little 
"following"  who  would  accompany  one  home 
to  see  the  parcels  unwrapped  and  hear  the 
tale  of  prices. 

Beth  carried  her  purchases  back  to  Liza  Allen's 
and  bestowed  them  in  her  room,  where  she  had 
thought  to  leave  them  still  in  their  wrappings 
until  she  came  home  after  her  day's  work.  But 
Liza  had  begun  to  "help  her  unwrop"  almost 
before  she  had  time  to  lay  the  bundles  down,  and 
her  interest  in  the  disclosures  and  what  Beth 
had  "give  for"  them  was  so  keen  and  so  happy 
that  again  Beth  yielded.  She  was  beginning 
to  apprehend  that  in  a  life  where  excitements 


20  JUST  FOLKS 

are  not  many  one  must  make  the  most  of  every 
little  interest,  and  that,  by  the  wonderful  law  of 
equivalence  which  operates  everywhere,  this  eager- 
ness to  be  interested  in  small  things  cultivated  a 
spirit  whose  potentiality  for  pleasure  was  in 
excess  of  that  usually  found  where  excitements 
are  big  and  diversions  many. 

"Spent  a  good  deal,  didn't  yeh  ?"  Liza  ques- 
tioned, a  little  anxiously.  But  Beth  assured  her 
that  she  needed  these  things  and  made  her  feel 
that  they  were,  in  a  way,  an  effort  to  do 
honor  to  the  "best  rentin'  room  in  the  neigh- 
borhood." 

That  evening  Hart  Ferris  called.  When  Beth 
had  told  him  of  her  new  home,  the  evening  she 
was  packing  up  to  go  to  it,  Hart  heard  her  glumly. 

"Every  time  I  go  to  see  you,  after  this,  have 
I  got  to  call  on  Liza  Allen,   too  ?"  he  asked. 

Beth's  eyes  twinkled.  "There's  the  kitchen 
— "  she  began  suggestively. 

Ferris  made  a  gesture  of  disgust. 

"It's  all  the  visiting  place  the  girls  over  there 
have,"  Beth  went  on  soberly,  "  and  few  of  them 
have  as  c retired'  a  kitchen  as  Liza's.  Maybe  I 
can  get  closer  to  the  Juvenile  Court  girls,  when 
I  live  closer  to  their  meagre  opportunities." 

The  wistful  look  crept  into  her  face  as  she  spoke, 
and  Ferris  found  himself  doing  as  he  always  did 
when  Beth  looked  that  way  :  praying  in  his 
heart  "God  bless  her!"     There  was  something 


JUST  FOLKS  21 

in  him  that  rebelled  against  many  of  Beth's 
undertakings,  but  it  was  a  superficial  some- 
thing ;  and  deep  down  beneath  it  was  another 
something  which  loved  her  the  more  intensely 
for  meeting  his  protests  with  unflinching  purpose. 

On  the  evening  of  his  first  call  at  Maxwell 
Street,  Ferris  found  Beth  threading  needles  for 
Liza  Allen,  while  that  tireless  woman  worked  at 
"finishin'." 

"Seems,  a'ready,  's  if  she'd  been  here  always," 
Liza  said  to  Ferris  when  she  had  welcomed  him 
and  told  him  how  Beth  "fit  in." 

When  Ferris  said  something  about  feeling  like 
an  idler  in  that  busy  atmosphere,  Liza  took  him 
at  his  word  and  indulgently  gave  him  a  finished 
wrapper,  and  told  him  to  "take  out  the  bastin's." 

Ferris  shot  a  quick  look  at  Beth  to  see  if  there 
was  laughter  in  her  eyes.  But  there  wasn't ; 
the  look  he  caught  before  the  blue  eyes  drooped 
again  to  their  needle-threading  was  a  look  which 
made  him  take  the  wrapper  and  apply  himself  to 
the  "bastin's"  as  if  that  were  the  inevitable 
thing  for  him  to  be  doing. 

"Seems  real  nice  to  have  a  man  around  again," 
said  Liza,  gratefully.  "I  ain't  had  much  mas- 
c'line  society  sence  Joe  died.  And  I  miss  it,  I 
tell  you.  Most  women's  talk  is  awful  tame  to  me. 
I  ain't  never  been  one  t'  go  along  takin'  no  inter- 
est  in  anythin'  but  vittles  an'  clo's,  like  most 
women,"    she   went   on.     "I    like    t'    hear   big 


22  JUST  FOLKS 

talk.  Why !  th'  other  day  the  Presbyterian 
preacher  came  here  t'  call  on  me.  I  guess  he's 
a  well-meanin'  young  fella,  but  land  !  he  bored 
me  stiff.  He  told  me  'bout  the  fine  currant  jell 
his  mother  used  t'  make,  and  how  handy  his  wife 
was  to  trim  her  own  hats.  I  didn't  say  nothin', 
not  wantin'  t'  hurt  his  feelin's.  But  if  he'd 
only  have  ast  me  what  I  thought  o'  the  way 
things  is  goin'  with  the  gov'ment,  I  could  have 
enjoyed  seein'  him.  I  suppose  that  young  man 
kin  read  seven  furrin  tongues  —  dead  languidges 
I've  heard  'em  called  —  but  he  ain't  got  no 
more  sense  o'  live  human  bein's  than  a  bleatin' 
lamb." 

So  Ferris,  taking  his  cue  from  the  preacher's 
failure,  talked  to  Liza  of  the  largest  topics  he 
knew,  or  knew  about ;  and  if  at  any  time  during 
the  call  he  thought  wistfully  of  the  kitchen,  or 
wished  Liza  would  go  to  bed,  he  concealed  the 
wistfulness  with  supreme  gallantry. 

Beth  accompanied  him  out  into  the  dark  hall 
when  he  had  said  good  night  to  Liza. 

"Well  —  ?"  she  said. 

He  knew  what  she  meant.  "Well  ?"  he  echoed, 
teasingly. 

"Are  your  worst  fears  confirmed  ?"  she  insisted. 

"My  worst  fears  are  not  confirmed,"  he  ad- 
mitted. 

"Do  you  begin  to  see  why  I  wanted  to  come  ?" 

"I  begin  to  see  why  you  wanted  to  come." 


JUST  FOLKS  23 

That  was  a  triumph  Beth  had  not  dared  to 
expect  so  soon. 

Beth  was  curious  about  her  neighbors,  but 
Liza  Allen  had  few  callers  ;  she  did  not  even 
encourage  the  other  women  of  the  house  to  sit  and 
talk  to  her  as  she  sewed.  They  "flustered"  her, 
she  said,  and  she  could  not  afford  to  be  flustered  ; 
she  was  happier  sitting  by  herself  and  thinking 
of  Joe's  elegant  funeral  as  she  sewed  and  sewed 
to  pay  for  it.  And  sew  she  must  right  steadily, 
for  longer  and  longer  hours  each  year  as  her 
fumbling  fingers  grew  less  and  less  expert  and 
trade  had  to  be  wooed  with  lower  and  lower 
prices. 

In  an  occasional  moment  of  depression  Liza 
would  admit  to  Beth  that  she  wasn't  "up  to 
all  the  wrinkles"  she  saw  in  her  magazine  of 
styles  ;  but  to  her  trade  she  never  talked  less 
authoritatively  than  a  sibyl ;  and  every  month 
she  hung  on  her  front  door  downstairs,  under  the 
faded  sign  which  advertised  "Fashionable  Dress- 
making," the  gaudiest  colored  plate  from  her 
magazine,  showing  the  willowiest  of  French  figures 
in  the  trailingest  of  French  evening  frocks. 

Beth  used  to  wonder  a  good  deal  about  the 
women  who  pored  so  intently  over  Liza's  style 
book,  lingering  —  some  delightedly,  some  resent- 
fully—  over  the  "dressiest"  pictures,  and  then 
agreeing    with    Liza    that    they'd    "best    have 


24  JUST  FOLKS 

a   good    basque;    'twon't    go    out   o'    style    so 


soon." 


But  none  of  these  customers  yielded  Beth 
any  friendship  until  an  eventful  Saturday  when 
she  had  been  with  Liza  for  nearly  two  weeks. 
On  that  day,  about  ten  in  the  morning,  Liza 
opened  her  door  in  response  to  a  faint  knock  and 
admitted  an  elfish  person  almost  completely  en- 
veloped in  a  large  black  shawl.  The  hall  was  so 
black  and  the  shawl  was  so  black  that  when 
Liza  first  peered  into  the  blackness  all  she  could 
see  was  a  very  small  white  face  and  the  shining 
of  two  very  large  dark  eyes. 

"Be  you  the  drissmaker?"  asked  the  elf. 

"I  be,"  said  Liza,  still  peering. 

"How  much  d'ye  charge  fer  my  size  ?" 

"Lan'  sakes,  I  don't  know!  Come  in  an* 
leave  me  look  at  you." 

The  elf  stepped  inside  and  looked  about  her 
awesomely.  Then  from  the  recesses  of  the 
shrouding  shawl  she  produced  a  bundle  wrapped 
in  a  pink  "sporting  sheet,"  and  disclosed  a  piece 
of  dark  red  dress  goods  which  Liza  called  "  me- 
rino," and  was  promptly  corrected  by  the  elf. 
"'Tis  i7mrietta-cloth,"  she  said. 

"Sure,"  agreed  Liza,  handling  it  with  critical 
fingers.    "I  hadn't  felt  of  it  when  I  said  merino." 

The  elf  said  her  name  was  Midget  Casey,  that 
she  lived  "to  Hinry  Street,  number  twinty-wan," 
and  that  the  goods  "was  give"  her  by  "a  lady 


JUST  FOLKS  25 

upstairs"  whose  baby  she  had  tended  and  whose 
errands  she  had  run  while  the  lady  was  sick. 
"  She  was  goin'  t'  git  it  in  a  waist  hersilf,"  the 
explanation  continued,  "but  she  give  it  to  me  if 
I  would  help  her ;  an'  I.  did."  Since  then  — 
that  was  a  month  ago  —  Midget  had  been 
hoarding  the  goods  and  working  "t'  git  it  made 
stylish."  She  had  scorn,  it  seemed,  of  her  ma's 
dressmaking  as  having  no  style.  This  Midget 
attributed  to  the  lack  of  "patrons"  (patterns), 
which  she  was  anxious  to  know  if  Liza  used. 
"I  want  it  made  Frinch"  she  announced,  "long  in 
th'  waist  an'  short  in  th'  skirt."  She  indicated 
in  the  style  book  what  she  meant,  pointing  with 
a  grimy  wee  finger.  "How  much  fer  th'  mak- 
in'  ?"  she  asked,  and  turned  up  to  Liza  such 
wishful  big  eyes  that  Liza  checked  the  "Fifty 
cents  "  which  rose  to  her  lips,  and  asked  instead, 
"How  much  you  got?"  Midget  had  thirty- 
five  cents,  all  in  nickels.  "I  made  'em  lightin' 
fires  fer  th'  Sheenies,"  she  said.  Jewish  law 
forbids  the  lighting  of  fires  on  Saturday  mornings, 
and  a  nickel  is  the  price  for  which  a  Gentile 
child  is  hired  to  assume  the  penalty  of  this 
sacrilege.  "  If  thim  ain't  enough,"  urged  Midget, 
to  whom  the  seven  nickels  looked  enough  for 
anything,  "could  youse  do  th'  rist  on  me  word  ?  " 
Liza  thought  they  would  be  enough  and  was  re- 
turning them  to  Midget  until  payment  should  be 
earned,    but    Midget    demurred.     "You    kape 


26  JUST  FOLKS 

thim,"  she  said  shrewdly,  "thin  I  know  wheer 
they  are."  There  was  a  note  of  relief  in  her  voice, 
as  if  of  satisfaction  to  know  that  all  the  tempta- 
tion to  divert  that  money  she  had  suffered  for 
weeks  was  over  now.  Beth  felt  it,  and  her  im- 
mediate impulse  was  to  return  the  hoard  to 
Midget  and  herself  pay  Liza  for  the  making  of 
the  dress.     But  something  made  her  hestitate. 

"I'll  help  you  with  it,"  she  said  to  Liza  when 
Midget  was  gone;  "you  oughtn't  to  take  your 
time  for  so  little  pay."  Already,  the  obligations 
of  Joe's  funeral  were  beginning  to  lie  heavily  on 
Beth  too. 

"The  pay's  enough,"  Liza  rejoined  delibera- 
tively,  "and  if  it  wa'n't,  it's  little  I  git  doin' 
fer  a  child." 

"That  thirty-five  cents  is  a  big  pile  of  money 
to  her,"  Beth  suggested.  "I  thought  I  might 
manage  to  make  the  dress  so  she  could  keep  the 
money." 

"You  let  her  pay  fer  her  dress,"  Liza  com- 
manded. "Folks  git  most  pleasure  out  o'  what 
costs  'em  most."  And  in  the  face  of  such  proof 
as  Liza  herself,  Beth  could  not  deny  this. 

But  the  next  time  she  went  out  she  instituted 
search  for  'Hinry"  Street  and  located  "twinty- 
wan, "  which  was  a  substantial  brick  house  of 
three  stories  and  what  the  neighborhood  calls  a 
basement,  but  the  tenement-house  laws  call  a 
cellar  because  it  is  two-thirds  or  more  under  the 


JUST  FOLKS  27 

street  level.  The  Caseys  lived  in  the  rear  cellar, 
Beth  learned  of  a  child  in  the  street,  and  the 
approach  thereto  was  down  a  steep  flight  of 
perilously  rickety  wooden  steps  and  along  a 
narrow  plank  walk  to  a  side  door,  and  then  into 
a  small  black  entryway  with  doors  opening  into 
the  Caseys'  "front  room"  and  into  the  kitchen 
of  the  front  flat,  and  with  steeply  winding  stairs 
disappearing  into  the  blackness  above.  Beth 
rapped  at  the  rear  door,  and  after  a  few  moments' 
delay  it  was  opened  by  a  woman  with  a  child  in 
her  arms. 

"Mrs.  Casey?"    asked  Beth. 

"Sure,"  was  the  response;  "will  ye  come 
in?" 

Beth  followed  the  woman  through  the  "front 
room,"  which  was  unfurnished  and  chill,  into  the 
kitchen,  which  was  stifling  with  heat  and  damp 
and  that  peculiar  acrid  odor  —  compounded  of 
mustiness  and  personal  uncleanness  and  stale 
odors  of  strong  cooking  —  which  every  visitor 
to  the  homes  of  the  poor  knows  as  "the  poverty 
smell." 

Fire  raged  to  the  brim  of  the  big,  heavily 
nickeled  cook  stove  which  the  Caseys  were 
buying  by  what  they  optimistically  called  "aisy 
payments,"  and  the  rest  of  the  steaming  room 
seemed  full  of  dripping  clothes.  Mary  Casey 
had  been  washing,  and  when  her  wash  was  hung 
on  the  lines  overhead  (it  was  a  wet  day)  she  had 


28  JUST  FOLKS 

dumped  the  tubful  of  suds  on  her  kitchen  floor 
and  swept  the  water  out  the  back  door. 

On  the  black,  soppy  floor  sat  a  weird,  wizened 
little  boy  who  glowered  at  Beth  unsociably. 

"Git  up,  Dewey,"  his  mother  commanded, 
"an'  have  some  manners  about  ye." 

The  baby  in  her  mother's  arms  was  a  pretty 
little  girl  of  two,  maybe,  evidently  "backward," 
but  attractive  in  spite  of  one  sore  eye. 

Beth  explained  that  she  lodged  at  the  dress- 
maker's—  thanking  her  stars  that  for  once  she 
did  not  have  to  introduce  herself  to  a  new  house- 
hold as  "de  p'leece  lady"  —  and  said  she  had 
come  to  ask  Midget  something  about  the  making 
of  her  dress. 

Midget's  mother  was  guiltless  of  knowledge 
that  Midget  was  getting  a  dress  made,  or  even 
that  she  had  "the  makin's."  Seeing  which, 
Beth  began  to  hedge  uncomfortably,  sorry  she 
had  betrayed  the  child.  But  in  a  moment  she 
became  aware  that  Mary  Casey  was  thoroughly 
elated  at  the  news. 

"Well,  now,  ain't  that  smart  of  'er?"  she 
queried  delightedly.  "Her  that  have  niver  had 
a  new  dress  in  her  life,  that  I  kin  raymimber. 
Rid,  did  ye  say  ?  It'll  become  'er  fine,  won't  it  ? 
An'  a  rale  drissmaker  t'  make  it !  Did  ye  iver?" 
The  mother  was  amused  as  well  as  proud. 

As  she  talked,  Beth  had  been  studying  her 
interestedly,  conscious  of  a  strong  drawing  toward 


JUST  FOLKS  29 

the  thin  Irish  woman  with  her  wisps  of  faded 
hair  screwed  back  tightly  from  her  prominent 
forehead ;  her  scarcity  of  teeth ;  her  fine, 
flashing  eyes  ;  and  her  gnarled  hands  —  hid- 
eously parboiled  just  now  —  on  the  wedding 
finger  of  which  hung  loosely  a  thin  gold  band. 
There  was  something  reminiscent  about  Mrs. 
Casey's  voice,  and  about  the  humor  in  her  dark 
eyes.  It  bothered  Beth  ;  and  then,  in  a  flash, 
the  connecting  link  of  memory  was  found,  and 
Beth  asked  :  — 

"Mrs.  Casey,  did  you  ever  know  any  one  by  the 
name  of  Tully  ?" 

"I  did  that,"  was  the  prompt  answer.  "I 
worked  out  fer  'em  just  before  I  was  married." 

"Then  you  were  Mary  Keegan  ?" 

"Yis,  ma'am." 

"And  I  am  little  Beth  Tully." 

"Fer  the  love  of!"  cried  Mary  Casey.  And 
then  followed  questions  and  explanations,  the 
history,  briefly  told,  of  eighteen  years. 

"Yer  not  married  ?"  asked  Mary. 

"No,"  Beth  answered,  and  could  feel  Mary's 
frank  sympathy;  "not  yet.  And  I'm  getting 
awful  old,  Mary;  I'm  twenty-five." 

"Ye  don'  look  it,"  said  Mary,  handsomely. 

Beth  loved  the  graciousness  of  Mary. 

"An'  how's  yer  ma  ?"  Mary  Casey  went  on. 

Beth  told  her  of  the  breaking  up  of  their  home, 
after  her  father's  death  three  years  ago ;   of  the 


30  JUST  FOLKS 

discovery  that  he  had  left  nothing  but  life  in- 
surance which,  of  course,  only  the  little  mother 
must  touch ;  and  of  her  own  coming  to  Chicago 
to  earn  a  living. 

"An'  yer  workin'  fer  yer  bit  of  livin',  ye  poor 
little  lamb  ?"  crooned  Mary,  tenderly.  "What 
d'ye  do?"  Beth  told  her.  "Fer  the  love  of!" 
the  older  woman  cried  compassionately. 

Beth  was  essentially  a  sturdy  young  soul, 
and  she  did  not  relish  being  felt  sorry  for.  But 
the  humor  in  her  that  was  her  genius  came  to 
her  aid,  and  she  accepted  the  situation  with 
keen  appreciation. 

"And  you,  Mary  ?"  she  said. 

"I've  had  nine,"  said  Mary,  proudly,  "an' 
sivin  of  'em's  alive." 

"And  your  husband  ?" 

Mary  laughed.     "Sure,  he's  alive,  all  right." 

Involuntarily,  Beth  looked  about  her,  and 
Mary  read  the  look. 

"He  ain't  workin'  stiddy,"  she  explained. 

"He"  was  a  stone-cutter  by  trade  and,  ap- 
parently, a  loafer  by  occupation  ;  this  last,  how- 
ever, was  no  conscious  admission  of  Mary's. 
He  was  a  "foine  scolard,"  she  said,  and  could 
"rade  an'  write  jest  as  aisy"  —  which  she 
herself  could  not  do.  But  he  had  "th'  failin'," 
and  what  with  that  and  with  cement  taking  the 
place  of  stone,  the  way  it  was,  he  had  hard 
work  finding  jobs. 


JUST  FOLKS  31 

No,  he  "didn'  have  no  caard  fer  no  other 
kind  of  trade;"  and  as  for  an  open  shop,  where 
"caards"  were  not  necessary,  he'd  starve  before 
he'd  "work  wid  scabs."  And  what  made  it 
kind  of  hard  was  that  various  charity  organiza- 
tions had  no  sympathy  with  his  predicament, 
and  refused  aid  if  the  visitors  came  and  found 
him  at  home. 

Sometimes  he  did  go  away  in  search  of  indus- 
trial conditions  better  suited  to  a  "man  wid 
princ'ples,"  where  it  is  neither  too  wet  nor  too 
dry,  too  hot  nor  too  cold  to  work,  and  everybody 
belongs  to  the  union.  With  the  first  soft  days  of 
spring,  he  almost  always  heard  of  some  "gran' 
job"  far  afield,  and  he  had  —  it  seemed  —  a 
remarkable  facility  in  getting  to  these  places, 
although  the  facility  always  failed  when  it  came 
to  finding  the  job.  It  was  astonishing,  to  Mary, 
how  few  opportunities  the  world  had  to  offer 
a  man  who  was  a  "scolard"  and  a  fierce  enemy 
to  scabs. 

In  consequence,  there  was  seldom  any  money 
forthcoming  from  these  tours  in  quest  of  ideal 
employment,  but  they  were  a  boon  to  the  family 
none  the  less,  for  then  they  hadn't  the  burden  of 
his  "keep."  Alas!  though,  the  tours  were  al- 
ways undertaken  in  pleasant  weather  when 
travelling  is  easy  but  charity  is  inoperative. 
With  the  first  biting  cold  he  came  back  along  the 
boardwalk,    some   night    at   supper   time ;     and 


32  JUST  FOLKS 

throughout  the  winter,  while  the  wolf  snapped  at 
the  warped  ill-fitting  door,  he  sat  with  his  feet 
in  the  oven  and  kept  scrupulous  charity  from 
pulling  the  wolf  away. 

All  this  Beth  gathered  from  Mary's  talk. 

"And  the  children?"  she  said.  "They  sup- 
port you.?" 

"Well,  mos'ly  they  do.  But  'tis  oncertain- 
like,  Mikey  bein'  out  of  a  job  so  much.  He's 
seventeen,  now,  but  awful  thin  and  not  rale 
smart  in  the  head." 

He  had  gone  to  work  when  he  was  eleven,  Mary 
went  on  to  explain  —  child-labor  laws  were 
less  rigorous  then  —  in  a  wall-paper  factory,  where 
he  worked  in  a  steaming  room  whose  temperature 
averaged  no°.  And  he  had  "took  th'  paint- 
p'isnin'."  His  "stumick  hadn't  set  right"  since 
then,  and  Beth  gathered  from  what  Mary  said 
that  Mikey  was  a  bit  flighty  and  lacked  a  sense 
of  responsibility.  Skilled  workmen  couldn't  be 
bothered  with  him  for  a  helper  and  apprentice. 
He  had  always  to  do  a  week's  work  now  here, 
now  there,  for  the  meagre  wage.  And  when  a 
rush  subsided  and  any  one  was  "let  off,"  Mikey 
was  always  the  first  one  spared. 

Beth  was  full  of  sympathy.  Maybe  .  she 
could  help  Mikey  —  could  get  some  one  to  take 
an  interest  in  him.  "What  is  he  working  at 
now  ?"  she  said. 

Mary    flushed    and    hesitated.     Then,    "I'll 


JUST  FOLKS  33 

tell  you,  Miss  Tully,  because  I  know  ye'll  under- 
stan'.  Mos'ly  I  tell  thim  that  asks,  ourMikey's 
workin'  on  th'  Sout'  Side,  though  there's  thim 
aroun'  here  that  know,  I'm  afraid.  He's  in  that 
place  they  call  th'  bean  house." 

"Why,  Mary  !     What  for  ?" 

Mary  stiffened  resentfully.  She  had  evi- 
dently not  understood  what  Beth  meant  when 
she  told  her — slurring  the  "Court"  part  as 
much  as  possible  —  that  she  was  a  Juvenile 
Probation  Officer,  and  she  mistook  Beth's 
sympathetic  interest  for  reproach. 

"Fer  bein'  discour'ged  —  though  that  isn' 
what  they  called  it  in  the  court." 

"I  know!"  cried  little  Beth,  "I  know!" 
Then  she  explained  to  Mary  Casey  what  her 
work  was. 

"Was  it  —  was  it  you  that  had  'im  sint  up  ?" 

"No,  Mary,  no  !  I've  been  in  this  district  only 
a  few  weeks.  I  used  to  have  a  district  on  the 
Northwest  Side." 

Mikey  must  have  been  before  the  Juvenile 
Court  and  sent  to  the  John  Worthy  Reform 
School  just  before  Beth  came  into  the  Nineteenth 
Ward  district.  He  had  found  the  cluttered 
kitchen  intolerable,  evenings,  and  had  taken  to 
going  out  with  some  of  the  neighborhood  boys. 
Disheartened  by  many  rebuffs,  he  could  see  no 
future  worth  hoping  for.  And  the  present  was 
bitter  indeed,  what  with  having  to  give  every 


34  JUST  FOLKS 

penny  he  earned  to  keep  souls  and  bodies  to- 
gether at  home,  and  with  Pa  drinking  up  part 
of  those  pitifully  few  pennies  and  cursing  the 
stupidity  in  Mikey  which  made  them  so  few. 
The  boys  he  went  with  were  young  rowdies, 
believed  by  the  police  to  be  responsible  for 
sundry  acts  of  lawlessness,  such  as  holding  high 
carnival  of  dice-throwing  and  beer-drinking  in  a 
vacant  store  without  the  owner's  permission, 
and  damaging  his  property  in  the  revel,  and  at- 
tempting to  tamper  with  the  locks  on  freight- 
cars,  for  purposes  of  petty  thieving.  The  boys 
seemed  to  the  Law  to  be  young  criminals-in-the- 
making  and,  not  knowing  any  better  thing  to  do 
for  them,  the  Law  had  put  them  under  restraint 
and  instruction. 

All  this  Beth  was  able  to  gather,  partly  from 
what  Mary  said  and  largely  through  her  own 
knowledge  of  such  situations. 

The  support  of  the  family,  now,  was  Angela 
Ann,  who  was  not  quite  sixteen  but  swore  she 
"was  over."  She  was  a  bundle  wrapper,  just 
at  present,  in  a  West  Side  "Emporium"  where 
she  got  $3.50  a  week. 

Beth  was  indignant  at  "Pa."  As  an  officer 
of  the  Juvenile  Court  it  was  a  large  part  of  her 
business  to  deal  summarily  with  the  delinquent 
parents  of  what  the  law  calls  "dependent  chil- 
dren." She  hinted  to  Mary  that  Pa  might  be 
brought  before  the  Court  and  made  to  work  ;  but 


JUST  FOLKS  35 

the  hint  was  evidently  not  approved,  so  Beth 
did  not  urge  it. 

No  wonder  that  thirty-five  cents  had  looked 
large  to  Midget !  No  wonder  she  felt  relieved 
to  deposit  it  beyond  recall  !  She  came  in 
before  Beth  left  and  looked  momentarily 
startled  at  the  probable  betrayal  of  her  secret. 
But  Mary's  beaming  pride  soon  reassured  her. 
"Girls  do  be  nadin'  a  pritty  thing  now'n'  agin'," 
she  told  Beth,  beaming  at  Midget  the  while. 
"'Tis  more  t'  them,  sometimes,  ner  what  they 
kin  ate.  An'  as  fer  fire,  there's  none  like  pride 
t'  kape  ye  warm." 

Beth  took  Midget  out  with  her,  when  she  went, 
to  bring  back  the  "little  treat  for  the  children" 
she  asked  Mary  if  she  might  not  buy  "to  cele- 
brate old  times  when  you  used  to  bake  me  saucer 
pies,  and  little  cakes  in  the  covers  of  the  baking- 
powder  tins." 

That  evening  she  told  Liza  Allen  and  Hart 
Ferris  about  the  Caseys.  She  was  a  little 
delicate,  at  first,  about  going  too  searchingly 
into  details  about  Pa  before  Liza,  who  had  herself 
suffered  so  much  from  a  worthless  man.  But 
she  need  not  have  been.  For  Liza  soon  made 
it  plain  to  her  that  she  might  inveigh  all  she 
wanted  to  against  idle,  selfish  men  who,  instead 
of  bearing  the  burdens,  made  of  themselves  the 
heaviest  weight  upon  their  poor  families.  Liza 
was  of  one  mind  with  her  about  such  men  ;   and 


36  JUST  FOLKS 

so,  it  seemed,  had  the  lamented  Joe  been,  too. 
For  whenever  Liza  had  asked  him  if  he  didn't 
feel  bad  to  think  he'd  had  to  live  and  die  without 
raising  a  family,  Joe  had  always  replied  with 
righteous  warmth  that  he  was  glad  —  "not  bein' 
one  to  raise  a  f am'ly  unless  he  could  do  handsome 
by  'em.  Joe  was  that  smart  himself,  he  couldn't 
never  have  stood  it  t'  raise  children  that  wa'n't 
clever.  If  he'd  of  had  boys,  I  bet  it'd  have  been 
college  fer  every  one  —  that  was  Joe!" 

Beth  looked  at  Ferris  and  Ferris  looked  at  Beth. 

"I  think,"  said  Beth,  when  she  could  trust  her- 
self to  speak,  "that  the  law  ought  to  get  after  Pa 
and  put  him  in  jail  if  he  won't  work." 

"Well,  now,"  Liza  answered  judicially,  hold- 
ing up  a  finished  "basque"  and  surveying  it 
critically,  her  head  on  one  side,  "that  ain't 
so  durned  easy  t'  say.  I  guess  they  can't 
nobody  decide  when  other  folks  has  stood  their 
troubles  long  enough.  If  them  that's  bearing 
'em  hollers,  I  guess  mebbe  it's  all  right  t'  run  in 
an'  help  'em  —  though  that  don't  always  foller 
neither  —  but  until  they  ask  fer  the  law,  I  can't 
see  but  what  the  law  has  got  t'  leave  'em  work 
out  their  own  salvation  —  in  fear  an'  tremblin'." 


Ill 

Every  day  that  Beth  lived  in  Maxwell  Street 
she  became  more  and  more  aware  of  the  amazing 
difference  it  was  making  in  her  work  and  in  her, 
to  live  close  to  the  daily  problems  of  a  few  typi- 
cal human  beings.  She  began  to  think  with 
scorn  of  the  profitless  intercourse  of  the  genteel 
boarding-house  she  had  left  and  to  wonder  if 
the  people  she  had  met  there  were  actually  as 
colorless,  as  bloodless,  as  apart  from  real  life 
and  its  issues  as  they  seemed,  or  whether  there 
was  something  in  the  atmosphere  that  en- 
veloped them  as  in  a  fog  and  made  each  of  them 
seem  to  all  his  neighbors  like  a  phantom,  a  shape 
stalking  through  a  vague,  chaotic  dream.  Over 
here,  there  was  such  intense  reality  in  people. 
Every  one  seemed  definite,  individual.  Every- 
thing they  did  seemed  to  belong  to  life  in  such 
an  integral,  essential  way. 

Just  "over  Monahan's,"  for  instance,  there 
was  a  wonderful  little  world,  sufficient  in  itself 
to  keep  one  interested.  Liza  knew  all  about  her 
neighbors,  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  she  had 
little  or  no  time  to  "mix  with  'em"  as  she  called 
it.     It  was,   however,   not  a  gossipy  tenement 

37 


38  JUST  FOLKS 

and  no  one's  feelings  were  hurt  by  Liza's  steady 
application  to  work. 

In  the  rooms  back  of  her  lived  a  very  quiet 
family  of  Russian  Jews  :  the  father  and  mother, 
the  mother's  mother,  and  three  children  all  above 
fourteen  years.  Their  name  was  something 
unpronounceable,  contracted  to  Slinsky.  The 
father  was  a  gentle  poetic-looking  man,  who 
might  have  stood  to  Sargent  for  one  of  the  least- 
direful  Prophets  in  his  great  fresco.  He  was  a 
dreamer,  with  none  of  the  commercial  sense  of 
his  race.  He  made  a  rigidly  honest  living  — 
meagre,  but  always  well  within  the  limits  of 
self-respect  amounting  to  pride  —  for  himself 
and  his  family,  by  peddling  brushes.  This 
left  him  free  to  keep  his  Saturdays  and  holydays 
for  the  Lord.  He  was  a  gentle  but  unrelenting 
fanatic  in  his  orthodoxy.  His  wife  was  a  large 
woman  of  a  melancholy  disposition,  inclined  to 
constant  fretfulness.  Her  mother  was  little 
and  shrunken  and  considered  very  venerable  and 
aged,  though  she  was  just  sixty.  She  wore  the 
black  wig  of  the  Jewish  elderly  woman  and  was 
so  like  thousands  of  others  of  her  sort  in  the 
Ghetto  that  Beth  used  to  marvel  how  their  own 
kindred  could  tell  "one  Grandma  from  another." 
The  children  were  :  Abe,  a  tall,  handsome 
youth  of  sixteen,  finishing  his  third  year  at  the 
High  School ;  Sarah,  his  younger  sister,  pretty 
and  vivacious  and  loving  gayety ;    and  Dinah, 


JUST  FOLKS  39 

the  eldest  of  the  children,  a  poor,  squat  little 
dwarf  with  a  fine  large  thoughtful  face  set  on  a 
body  no  bigger  than  a  child  of  six  should  have. 
Dinah  was  to  graduate  from  the  High  School  this 
June,  and  Liza  had  "heard  tell"  that  one  of 
Dinah's  classmates,  who  was  her  particular  friend, 
was  a  blind  girl.  All  this  made  Beth  intensely 
anxious  to  know  the  Slinksys,  but  they  were 
exceedingly  reserved,  and  the  passionate  drama 
of  their  lives  unfolded  to  her  almost  not  at  all 
for  many  weeks. 

Below  the  Slinskys  lived  the  family  of  Joe 
Gooch,  a  teamster.  He  was  a  very  giant  in 
stature,  a  hard  worker,  a  tender  husband  and 
father,  a  thoroughly  nice,  good  man  of  the  sort 
frequently  developed  by  a  pretty,  incompetent 
wife.  Mamie  Gooch  had  been  a  "saleslady," 
and  five  years  of  married  life  had  made,  appar- 
ently, so  little  impress  on  her  that  one  felt  she 
could  at  any  moment  have  stepped  out  of  her 
untidy  kitchen,  bunched  out  her  pompadour  to  a 
little  more  monstrous  proportions,  exchanged  her 
wrapper  for  a  black  dress,  and  gone  back  to  a 
place  behind  a  counter,  without  carrying  with  her 
one  sobering,  maturing  trace  of  her  wifehood  and 
motherhood. 

In  front  of  the  Gooches  and  below  Liza  lived 
Hannah  Wexsmith,  a  little  Irish  widow  who 
always  made  Beth  think  of  Dickens  and  regret 
that  the  great  romancer  could  not  have  added 


4o  JUST  FOLKS 

Hannah  to  his  gallery  of  immortals.  It  took 
Beth  a  considerable  time  to  learn  to  know 
Hannah,  so  we  may  not  be  precipitate  here. 
Superficially,  the  main  facts  about  Hannah  were 
that  she  had  lived  in  those  rooms  for  eighteen 
years,  since  before  the  incursion  of  the  Jews, 
and  before  the  death  of  her  husband,  who  was  a 
janitor's  assistant  in  a  downtown  office  building 
and  was  killed  by  a  fall  from  a  high  window  he 
was  cleaning.  Hannah  was  childless,  which,  so 
far  as  outlook  went,  meant  not  only  that  she  had 
no  one  besides  herself  to  consider  in  her  present, 
but  no  one  to  whom  she  could  look  for  con- 
sideration in  her  future.  The  rent  of  her 
rooms  was  #10  a  month  when  she  first  took 
them,  #12  later  on  and  now.  She  sublet  her 
two  front  rooms ;  when  they  were  continu- 
ously tenanted  and  the  rent  was  not  "behind- 
hand," the  revenue  from  them  was  $18  a  month. 
And  on  the  difference  between  her  fixed  and  un- 
postponable  obligation  to  the  landlord,  and  her 
lodgers'  variable  and  much-deferred  obligations 
to  her,  she  managed  to  live,  somehow,  and  to  keep 
aloof  from  the  smallest  evidence  of  poverty. 
The  house  next  on  the  west  was  three  stories  high 
and  very  close.  Upstairs,  Liza's  kitchen  and  the 
Slinskys'  got  some  light  filtering  down  from  the 
zenith,  but  Hannah's  kitchen  and  Mamie  Gooch's 
were  as  "dark  as  pockets."  Mamie  had  her 
"front"  room,  overlooking  the  yard,  to  live  in. 


JUST  FOLKS  41 

But  Hannah  lived  in  her  tomblike  kitchen  and  a 
stifling  closet,  miscalled  a  room,  where  her  cot- 
bed  stood.  It  would  never  have  entered  her 
head  to  invade,  for  longer  than  the  time  neces- 
sary to  "do  them  up,"  those  front  rooms,  sacred 
to  the  lodgers. 

At  the  head  of  the  first  flight  of  stairs  was  a  wall 
bracket  containing  a  small  glass  lamp.  The  halls 
were  as  black  at  noon  as  at  midnight,  but  custom 
decreed  that  the  lamp  should  be  lighted  by  the 
tenant  of  the  second  floor  front  rooms,  each  evening 
at  six,  and  that  the  feeble  beacon  should  glimmer 
until  it  expired,  somewhere  in  those  wee,  small 
hours  when  the  last  stumbling,  home-coming  step 
had,  supposedly,  reached  the  door  of  its  desti- 
nation. Hannah  Wexsmith  had  been  the  keeper 
of  the  light  for  eighteen  years  and  had  never  once 
failed  in  her  duty.  No  guardian  of  a  great  coast 
beacon  ever  held  his  office  more  responsibly. 

It  was  in  the  discharge  of  this  duty  that  she 
used  to  be  in  the  hall  sometimes  when  Beth  was 
coming  home  at  night,  and  there  they  had  their 
first  intercourse,  which  was  no  more  than  what 
Hannah  called  "biddin'  the  time  o'  day."  Later, 
when  the  spring  evenings  grew  warm  enough, 
Hannah  would  carry  a  green  carpet-covered 
hassock  down  to  the  street  door  and  sit  there  for 
hours,  half-hidden  by  Monahan's  overflow  of 
cabbages,  watching  the  human  comedy  in  Max- 
well Street ;    and  here  Beth  would  come  to  sit 


42  JUST  FOLKS 

beside  her,  sometimes  —  but  of  all  this,  and  of 
the  others,  more  anon. 

The  Caseys  yielded  her  an  intimate  friendship 
much  more  readily  than  did  anybody  else  but 
Liza  Allen.  Partly  this  was  because  of  her  old- 
time  connection  with  Mary,  and  partly  it  was  be- 
cause the  Caseys  were  the  Caseys  —  so  rich  in 
human  nature  that  every  visit  to  them,  every 
call  from  them,  was  an  illumination  in  the  ways 
of  life. 

Beth  was  especially  concerned  to  do  something 
with  or  to  Pa.  But  one  reason  why  it  was  so 
difficult  to  do  anything  drastic  regarding  Casey 
was  that  he  was  always  on  the  very  eve  of  "gittin' 
a  gran'  job."  That  he  hardly  ever  got  any  of 
these  jobs,  or  that  when  he  did  get  one,  he  failed 
to  keep  it,  did  not  seem  to  quench  his  family's 
faith  in  him.  And  before  Beth  was  aware  of 
what  was  happening,  the  contagion  of  this  hope- 
fulness had  spread  to  her.  She  had  never  yet 
seen  Pa ;  but  as  day  after  day  she  went  to  see 
Mary  and  found  her  in  need  of  everything,  but 
splendidly  buoyed  up  by  the  assurance  that 
"yistiddy  he  was  after  hearin'  of  a  gran'  job 
that  a  man  tell  him  of,  an'  to-day  he've  gon'  t' 
see  about  gittin'  it,"  she,  too,  was  conscious  of 
an  exhilarating  expectancy. 

She  always  asked  eagerly,  next  time  she  went, 
if  he  had  got  the  "gran'  job,"  and  was  always  told 
a  harrowing  tale  of  how  it  had  been  "give  out 


JUST  FOLKS  43 

just  ten  minutes  befoore  he  got  there,"  or  how 
"the  boss  was  after  givin'  it  to  a  man  he  favored." 
But  she  began  to  feel  with  the  Caseys  the  ex- 
citement of  a  situation  wherein  they  could  not 
tell  the  moment  Pa  might  get  a  day's  work 
at  four  dollars.  Why,  it  had  even  happened, 
several  times,  that  he  worked  a  whole  week  and 
swaggered  in  an  affluence  which  kept  the  family 
dizzy  opening  parcels.  Beth  felt  that  one  ought 
not  to  be  "brash"  about  jailing  a  man  who  at 
any  moment  was  likely  to  be  worth  four  dollars  a 
day. 

Almost,  Beth  told  herself,  smiling  whimsically, 
she  was  beginning  to  see  the  advantages  —  in 
this  life  of  ours  where  expectancy  is  quite  as  neces- 
sary a  staple  as  sufficiency,  if  not,  indeed,  rather 
more  necessary  —  of  the  continued  imminence 
of  a  grand  job  over  the  steady  grind  of  an 
assured  wage. 

But  there  were  times,  too,  when  she  shared 
the  family  reaction  —  the  inevitable  "slump" 
after  too  giddy  hopefulness.  Sometimes  this 
took  the  form  of  deep  depression,  sometimes  of 
sharp  exasperation.  It  was  during  one  of  these 
latter  times  that  Beth  ventured  to  speak  again 
of  the  Juvenile  Court.  Mary  was  dubious. 
"It'd  make  him  awful  mad,"  she  hazarded. 
Beth  thought  that  was  probable.  "An'  whin 
he's  riled,  he  have  a  pritty  bad  temper."  Mary 
was  at  that  moment  wearing  the  family  panacea, 


44  JUST  FOLKS 

a  brown  paper  soaked  in  vinegar,  over  a  bruise 
on  her  right  temple  ;  it  was  this,  indeed,  that  had 
fired  Beth  to  speak.  Yes,  Beth  could  believe 
that  he  had  a  temper,  but  she  wouldn't  ask  Mary 
to  make  the  charges  —  she  would  do  that  herself. 
But  still  Mary  wavered. 

"Don't  you  do  it,"  she  pleaded  —  and  Beth 
was  not  deceived  as  to  Mary's  solicitude  and  for 
whom  it  was  greatest  —  "for  I  wouldn't  put  it 
past  him  t'  lay  fer  you  some  night  whin  he  got 
out  —  he'd  be  that  mad  !" 

So  the  regeneration  of  Pa  by  process  of  law 
was  kept  in  abeyance  for  a  while,  and  Beth 
tried  to  soften  the  hard  lot  of  the  little  Caseys 
by  begging  enough  to  get  them  shod  and  clad  — 
the  latter  savoring  a  little  of  motley,  in  truth, 
but  warm  and,  when  Beth  could  compass  it, 
bright-hued.  For  instance,  when  she  learned 
the  passion  of  Mollie's  soul  for  red  shoes  and  the 
need  of  Mollie's  feet  for  shoes  of  any  kind,  she 
decided  that  red  would  wear  as  well  as  black  and 
in  every  other  respect  would  please  better,  so  she 
bought  red.  They  pleased  !  Mollie  slept  with 
them  on  for  three  nights,  meeting  all  remonstrance 
with  :  — 

"Agin  I  take  thim  off,  how  do  I  know  I'll  iver 
see  thim  anny  more  ?" 

Then  Beth  intervened  and  confidence  was  in- 
duced in  Mollie.  Alas,  it  was  doomed  to  a  vio- 
lent shaking  very  soon. 


JUST  FOLKS  45 

Midget  came  over  to  Liza  Allen's  one  afternoon 
in  a  state  of  woe  so  far  beyond  speech  that  it  was 
a  long  time  before  Liza  and  Beth  could  make 
out  what  had  happened.     At  length  :  — 

"We're  after  bein'  robbed!"  Midget  wailed 
between  her  sobs.  And  then,  little  by  little, 
came  the  details  —  such  meagre  details  as  there 
were.  Mollie's  red  shoes  and  stockings  were 
gone,  and  Midget's  red  dress  was  gone,  and 
other  warm,  pawnable,  whole  things  of  recent 
acquisition  were  gone. 

In  an  instant,  Beth's  mind  framed  an  accusa- 
tion, but  she  stopped  herself  just  short  of  de- 
livering it. 

"Who,"  she  faltered  instead,  "who  could 
have  robbed  you,  Midget  ?" 

Midget  dried  her  tears  momentarily,  while  the 
mystery  and  delicious  excitability  of  the  thing 
outweighed  the  woe  of  it. 

"We  dunno,"  she  said,  "but  my  ma  have  a 
lady  frien'  wid  a  young  gen'leman  son  that's 
a  burglar  —  that's  his  business  —  an'  we  think 
mebbe  he  done  it." 

Midget  was  very  matter-of-fact  about  the 
young  gentleman's  business,  and  mentioned  it  in 
quite  the  same  casual  tone  she  would  have  em- 
ployed had  she  said  he  was  a  plumber  or  an  ice- 
man, and  she  seemed  fatalistic  about  the  red 
shoes  and  the  red  dress,  as  if  —  it  being  the 
young  gentleman's  work  in  the  world  to  "burgle," 


46  JUST  FOLKS 

and  their  small  treasures  coming  in  the  way  of 
his  work  by  reason  of  his  ma  having  been  to 
call  on  her  ma  and  seen  all  the  new  belongings  — 
it  were  futile  to  combat  the  inevitable. 

Beth  let  no  breath  of  her  suspicion  taint  the 
child,  but  when  Midget  was  gone  she  blazed 
forth  in  an  anger  that  fairly  startled  Liza.  Now 
she  was  going  to  have  him  arrested,  the  miserable 
cur  !  The  idea  of  a  lot  of  people  who  ought  to 
know  better,  standing  around  "hemming  and 
hawing"  while  a  cowardly  wretch  was  robbing 
his  little  children.  The  more  she  railed,  the 
madder  she  got. 

"I'm  going  right  over  there  !"  she  announced 
to  Liza. 

Liza  remonstrated.  "He  might  be  to  home," 
she  urged. 

But  Beth  only  hoped  he  would  be,  so  she  could 
tell  him  what  she  thought  of  him. 

It  was  a  raw,  wet  evening,  and  not  many  per- 
sons were  abroad  in  the  bleak,  muddy  streets  as 
Beth,  having  hurried  through  an  early  supper 
with  Liza,  started  out  on  her  mission  of  venge- 
ance. 

Henry  Street  was  very  dark,  and  the  alleyway 
back  to  the  Caseys'  door  was  darker  still,  but 
Beth  did  not  mind  darkness.  Long  since  she 
had  got  over  the  idea  that  people  who  are  poor 
are    probably    dangerous ;     long    ago    she    had 


JUST  FOLKS  47 

learned  that  Henry  Street  is  many  degrees  safer 
than  Michigan  Boulevard. 

Her  knock  on  the  kitchen  door  —  she  always 
went  to  the  back  now  and  entered  as  the  Caseys 
themselves  did,  direct  from  the  oozy  yard  — 
brought  Mary  to  it,  and  her  first  glance  within 
revealed  Pa. 

The  kitchen  was  stifling  hot,  but  Pa  sat  with 
his  feet  on  the  opened  door  of  the  oven.  His 
coat  was  off,  his  shoes  were  off;  he  was  *  'down  to  " 
trousers,  thick  woollen  socks,  and  a  heavy  woollen 
undershirt  of  a  hideous  mustard-colored  hue. 
It  was  some  minutes  before  he  chanced  so  to 
turn  his  face  that  the  feeble  lamplight  shone  full 
on  it  and  Beth  got  a  real  idea  of  how  he  looked. 
The  first  few  minutes  of  their  conversation  — 
and  immediately  she  had  entered  and  been  in- 
troduced, Pa  assumed  the  whole  burden  of  her 
entertainment  —  she  was  able  to  see  him  only  in 
silhouette  and  to  hear  his  voice,  which  had  a 
pleasant  low  pitch  and  was  full  of  notes  whose 
plaintiveness  all  but  disarmed  her.  He  was 
telling  her  of  the  difficulties  of  the  labor  situation, 
the  hard  position  he  was  forced  into  by  the  in- 
flexibility of  his  "princ'ples,"  and  his  inclination 
to  believe  that  "if  this  here  Sociable  party  was 
to  git  elected,  things  would  be  better  for  the 
lab'rin'  min."  And  Mary  and  the  children 
listened,  spellbound  with  awe  and  admiration  of 
him. 


48  JUST  FOLKS 

When  Beth  remembered  about  the  theft  of  the 
red  shoes  she  felt  somehow  unable  to  refer  to  it 
in  the  way  she  had  meant  to.  Instead,  she  com- 
miserated Pa  on  his  loss,  and  Pa  rewarded  her 
with  as  fine  a  flow  of  vituperation  of  the  "t'ief  " 
as  she  could  in  her  moment  of  greatest  indignation 
have  desired.  Almost,  as  she  listened,  Beth 
found  herself  on  the  point  of  offering  Pa  an  apol- 
ogy for  the  accusation  she  had  harbored  against 
him  but  had  not  uttered. 

No  ;  he  had  not  reported  his  loss  to  the  police. 
"Thim  coppers  niver  take  no  intrust  in  a  poor 
man,  and  annyway  they  niver  ketch  nothin'." 
Why,  Pa  had  even  heard  it  whispered,  in  high 
circles,  where  they  know  such  things,  that  "the 
coppers  is  in  cahoots  wid  de  robbers  all  de  time  ! " 
No,  he  hadn't  charged  anything  against  the 
young  gentleman  whose  known  business  it  was 
to  burgle,  because  they  had  no  sort  of  evidence 
against  him,  and  'tis  a  grave  crime  to  accuse  a 
man  falsely ;  also,  his  ma  was  a  nice  lady  that 
Casey  wouldn't  want  to  offend,  and  anyway, 
he  was  going  to  buy  Mollie  and  Midget  red 
dresses  and  red  shoes  "t'  beat  th'  band,"  when 
he  got  the  grand  job  that  was  promised  him  for 
next  week  sure. 

He  got  up  as  he  said  this  and  moved  his  chair, 
and  Beth  had  her  first  glimpse  of  his  face.  It 
was  almost  the  most  inoffensive  face  she  had 
ever  seen,  youthfully  round  in  outline  and  guile- 


JUST  FOLKS  49 

less  in  expression.  The  big  Irish-blue  eyes  were 
wonderfully  appealing,  and  when  Pa  smiled, 
Beth  could  see  where  the  children  got  their 
lovely  dimples  —  even  under  grime  and  stubble 
Pa's  persisted. 

Much  baffled  by  the  problem  of  Pa  was  Beth, 
when  she  got  to  Liza's,  but  Hart  Ferris,  who  was 
awaiting  her  there,  laughed  at  her  perplexity. 

"Why,  Beth  dear,"  he  said,  "that  rapscallion 
probably  had  the  pawn-ticket  for  those  red  things 
in  his  pocket  when  he  was  talking  to  you  !  A 
nice  little  sentimentalist  like  you  is  no  match  for 
Pa  !  Now,  just  to  show  you,  I'm  going  to  drop 
in  at  Maxwell  Street  police  station  as  I  go  home, 
and  ask  my  old  friend,  Sergeant  Doonan,  to 
see  if  he  can't  find  out  what  Pa  did  with  those  red 
shoes.  No,  of  course  the  police  don't  care  —  on 
general  principles  —  but  I'm  going  to  explain  to 
Doonan  ;  he  has  a  sense  of  humor,  and  he  doesn't 
mind  obliging  a  newspaper  man  now  and  then, 
when  it's  just  as  easy  as  not.     You  wait  and  see  ! " 

"Sure,  I'll  find  out!"  roared  Doonan,  when 
Ferris  told  him.  Beth  and  her  "job"  were  a 
huge  joke  to  Doonan,  and  he  decidedly  relished 
this  opportunity  of  belittling  the  judgment  of  any 
girl  who  meddled  in  police  matters.  "I'll  pinch 
him  to-night  and  sweat  him  a  bit ;  ten  to  one 
we'll  find  the  ticket  on  him." 

They  did  !     And  they  "took  it  off  of"  him  — 


So  JUST  FOLKS 

which  was  not  according  to  law,  of  course ;  for 
the  law  allows  a  man  to  steal  from  his  own  chil- 
dren ;  even  to  steal  that  which  he  had  no  part 
in  giving  them.  But  the  law  felt  able  to  take  a 
few  liberties  with  Casey  without  fear  of  his 
retaliating. 

Doonan  sent  an  officer,  first  thing  next  morning, 
over  to  Liza  Allen's  to  give  the  pawn-ticket  to 
Beth.  The  officer  said  he  would  go  with  her  to 
the  pawnshop  if  she  wanted  to  redeem  the  things, 
and  Beth  accepted  the  offer.  Out  of  her  own 
meagre  salary  Beth  bought  back  the  things, 
and  when  she  had  got  them,  she  went  direct  to 
Henry  Street.  The  officer  was  much  amused 
by  the  purposeful  stride  of  her  and  the  look  of 
stern  determination  in  her  face.  Secretly  he 
hoped  Pa  was  at  home  ;  he  wanted  the  fun  of 
standing  by  and  seeing  Pa  confronted  by  the 
angry  little  "p'leece  lady"  with  the  recovered 
property. 

Pa  was  not  at  home.  His  pursuit  of  the  grand 
job  had  begun  unusually  early  that  morning. 
So  Beth  dismissed  the  officer  —  who  judged  there- 
from that  she  had  been  a  bit  afraid  of  facing  Pa 
with  "the  ividince"  —  and  further,  withdrew 
Mary  apart  from  the  children  and  into  the 
"  front  room,"  before  opening  her  parcel  and 
disclosing  the  contents. 

"Fer  the  love  o'  Hivin  !"  cried  Mary,  de- 
lightedly.    "Wheer  did  ye  git  thim  ?" 


JUST  FOLKS  51 

She  made  a  move  toward  the  door  as  if  to  call 
the  children  to  acclaim  their  recovered  treasures. 
But  Beth  stopped  her. 

"Wait!"  she  said. 

It  was  harder  to  do  than  she  had  thought  it 
would  be.  If  only  Mary  Casey  had  looked  in- 
dignant !  But  she  didn't ;  she  looked  stricken, 
and  the  tears  rolled  slowly  down  her  shrunken 
cheeks. 

"I  t'ought  he  was  free-an'-aisy-like,"  she 
sobbed.  "  I  knew  he  didn't  have  rale  ambition  t' 
git  on,  but  I  niver  t'ought  he'd  do  a  t'ing  like 
this!" 

Beth  was  young,  but  she  was  old  enough  to 
have  lived  through  the  experience  of  being  brought 
face  to  face  with  irrefutable  proof  that  some  one 
she  yearned  to  believe  in  was  baser  than  she  had 
supposed  possible  —  yes,  and  to  have  hated  the 
proof-producer  !  So  she  knew  how  Mary  felt, 
and  how  to  be  grateful  when  that  distressed 
woman  did  not  turn  on  her  husband's  accuser. 

"Don't  tell  thim,"  Mary  pleaded,  meaning 
the  children.  "'Tis  hard  enough  fer  thim  to  be 
patient  wid  him  annyway,  an'  sure  it  could'n' 
do  no  good  to  anny  wan  fer  thim  children  to 
know  theer  pa's  a  —  to  know  he've  been  lid  into 
doin'  mean  by  thim." 

So  Beth  promised  and  went  on  her  way, 
pondering  these  things  in  her  heart.  That  was 
"dependent  children's  day  "in  the  Juvenile  Court, 


52  JUST  FOLKS 

and  Beth  rather  puzzled  the  judge  by  the  hesi- 
tancy with  which  she  reported  on  the  cases  to 
which  she  had  been  detailed.  She  didn't  seem  to 
know  the  exact  merits  of  any  of  them. 

On  her  way  home,  she  stopped  at  Henry  Street 
and  found,  as  she  had  feared  to  find,  the  Caseys 
supperless. 

"If  Midget  will  come  to  Blue  Island  Avenue 
with  me,"  said  the  contrite  Beth,  "I'll  send  back 
a  little  'treat'." 

Midget  went. 

"What  would  you  like  most  of  anything?" 
Beth  asked,  anticipating  a  demand  for  lemon 
cream  pie  and  determined  not  to  oppose  it. 

"Oyster  stew!"  said  Midget,  promptly. 

At  the  store  —  where,  Beth  learned  afterward, 
Midget  claimed  Beth  as  her  "aunt"  —  they 
bought  a  quart  of  bulk  oysters,  a  bag  of  crackers, 
half  a  pound  of  butter,  and  two  quarts  of 
milk. 

"Are  you  sure  your  ma  knows  how  to  make 
oyster  stew  ?"  Beth  asked,  as  she  helped  Midget 
home  with  her  purchases. 

"Oh,  yes'm,  she  know  how  to  make  it  fine," 
Midget  cried,  hopping  along  happily  but  at  great 
risk  of  churning  the  milk  she  carried.  "An'  my 
pa  just  love  it !" 

Beth  stopped  stock-still  on  the  sidewalk,  and 
for  a  mad  moment  she  struggled  with  the  impulse 
to  dump  the  oysters  out  in  the  street.     Then  the 


JUST  FOLKS  S3 

happiness  of  the  child  beside  her  made  her 
ashamed. 

"I'm  just  as  bad  as  the  charity  organizations," 
she  told  herself  when  she  had  seen  Midget  safely 
down  the  rickety  stairs  with  her  "spilly" 
treasure.  "I'd  almost  let  Mary  Casey  and  those 
children  starve  rather  than  feed  him." 

That  evening  when  Hart  Ferris  called,  full  of 
eagerness  to  learn  how  his  intervention  had 
affected  the  Caseys,  Beth  surprised  him  by  saying 
that  she  must  go  out. 

"I  had  to  talk  to  you  alone,"  she  explained 
when  they  were  on  the  street.  "Somehow  the 
things  I  want  to  say  wouldn't  say  themselves 
before  dear  old  Liza  Allen  —  I  don't  know  why, 
but  they  wouldn't." 

"And  you  aren't  going  to  do  a  thing  —  even 
now?"    Ferris  urged,  when  Beth  had  told  him. 

"I  don't  know — "  she  began  feebly. 

"Why,  Beth,"  he  said,  "the  law—" 

She  drew  her  arm  a  little  closer  through  his  in 
an  appealing  way  that  made  Ferris  look  down  at 
her  tenderly. 

"This  isn't  the  law,"  she  said.     "This  is—" 

"Is  what?" 

They  were  passing  a  street  lamp  and  Ferris 
paused  a  moment  to  scan  the  earnest  little  face. 

"I  don't  know,"  whispered  Beth,  "I  don't 
know  —  the  —  the  gospel,  I  guess."  And  then 
she  t51d  him  about  the  oysters.     "I  think  — 


54  JUST  FOLKS 

don't  be  shocked,"  she  said,  "but  I  think  I  know 
how  God  feels  —  in  a  way.  It  came  over  me 
to-night,  all  of  a  sudden,  when  I  had  resisted 
my  impulse  to  spill  the  oysters.  You  see,  Hart, 
even  God  can't  keep  the  innocent  from  suffering 
with  the  guilty,  or  the  guilty  from  enjoying  the 
sun  and  starshine,  same  as  the  pure  in  heart. 
Or,  if  He  can,  He  doesn't.  Then  why  should 
we  —  " 


IV 

"Don't  do  it  again,  my  boy,"  the  judge  said 
kindly,  dismissing  the  case  of  a  badly  scared 
youngster  arrested  for  begging  street-car  trans- 
fers. "If  you  didn't  know  before  that  it  was 
wrong,  you  know  now." 

Before  the  dazed  boy  and  his  frightened  parents 
could  realize  that  the  law  was  temporarily  through 
with  them,  the  chief  probation  officer  had  touched 
the  button  at  his  desk  beside  the  judge's ;  a 
bailiff  was  directing  the  dismissed  group  out  the 
front  door  of  the  court  room,  and  another  bailiff 
was  ushering  a  new  group  in  at  the  side  door. 

The  departing  group  was  Bohemian  —  stolid, 
slow  of  speech,  inclined  to  be  sullen  ;  the  arriving 
group  was  Jewish  —  Russian  Jewish  —  but  un- 
usually animated  for  that  race.  A  decided  stir 
seemed  to  come  with  them  into  the  court  room, 
and  the  moment  they  were  in,  it  became  appar- 
ent where  the  "stir"  generated.  The  prisoner 
at  the  bar,  the  offender  against  law  and  order, 
was  a  very  small  boy,  with  very  big,  very  scared- 
looking  bright  black  eyes  ;  he  was  arraigned  for 
throwing  a  ball  through  the  store  windows  of  one 
Karnowitz,  on  Twelfth  Street.  But  the  con- 
versational energy  of  the  party  was  vested  in  the 

ss 


56  JUST  FOLKS 

prisoner's  mother,  a  wee  woman  with  purply-red 
cheeks  colored  by  a  network  of  broken  veins, 
beady  bright  eyes,  and  a  volubility  that  made 
her  sibilant   "s's"   sound   like   escaping  steam. 

"Herman,"  said  the  judge,  consulting  the  data 
of  the  case  he  held  in  his  hand,  "you  were 
arrested  for  breaking  a  window  in  Karnowitz's 
store." 

Here  Karnowitz  jumped  excitedly  into  the 
discussion.  He  was  an  Oriental-looking  Semite, 
stoop-shouldered,  hook-nosed,  gray-bearded  — 
such  a  Ghetto  type  as  an  artist  would  immediately 
select  for  his  representativeness  and  for  his 
pictorial  qualities. 

"Yess!"  he  cried,  worming  his  way  through 
the  little  crowd  of  witnesses  and  court  officials 
to  the  judge's  desk  and  shaking  an  expressive 
Hebraic  forefinger  under  the  judge's  very  nose. 
"Und  how  many  times  I  toldt — " 

"I'm  talking  to  Herman,"  said  the  judge,  re- 
provingly. "Your  turn  will  come  by  and  by; 
I'll  let  you  tell  your  story  after  I  hear  his.  Why 
did  you  do  it,  Herman  ?  Don't  you  know  win- 
dows are  expensive,  and  that  it  isn't  right  for 
you  to  throw  a  ball  where  it  may  break  a  window  ? 
Don't  you  know  that,  to  keep  you  from  the 
danger  of  breaking  a  window,  the  law  says  you 
mustn't  play  ball  in  the  street  ?" 

"Iss  it  sucha  lawss  ?  He  ain'd  knowed  it  iss 
sucha   lawss,"  began  Herman's  mother,  shrilly. 


JUST  FOLKS  57 

"In  dees  coundry  iss  sucha  many  lawss  —  more 
as  Russia  !  —  we  cand't  know  all  dose  lawss  !" 

The  judge  turned  sharply  on  the  purple- 
cheeked  little  woman  and  rapped  on  his  desk  with 
a  ruler  to  emphasize  his  words.  "I  want  it 
understood  that  I  am  talking  to  Herman  Rubo- 
vitz,"  he  said,  "and  the  next  person  who  answers 
a  question  I  ask  Herman  will  be  put  out  of  the 
court  room  !     Now  Herman  — " 

And  the  questioning  went  on  —  patient,  kindly, 
encouraging  —  till  Herman  got  over  his  fright 
and  began  to  tell  the  court,  confidentially,  just 
how  it  happened. 

The  court  showed  fine  understanding  of  a  boy's 
temptations,  but  firm  respect  for  the  rights  of 
Karnowitz  and  for  the  majesty  of  the  law. 
Then  Karnowitz  was  allowed  to  tell  his  troubles, 
briefly,,  and  the  court  reminded  him  that  Ghetto 
boys  have  not  many  places  to  play  ball  except  in 
the  street,  and  urged  that  due  leniency  be  showed 
to  youth,  if  youth  had  a  will  to  make  amends. 

"Are  you  sorry,  Herman,  that  you  disobeyed 
the  law,  and  that  you  broke  the  window  in  Mr. 
Karnowitz's  shop  ?"  Herman  nodded.  "And 
will  you  promise  me  faithfully  that  you  will  work 
and  earn  money  to  pay  him  for  a  new  window  ?" 

"He  cand't !  It  is  lawss  for  him  nod  to  work," 
shrilled  his  mother. 

The  judge  silenced  her  with  a  look.  "How 
old  are  you,  Herman  ?" 


58  JUST  FOLKS 

"I'm  going  to  fourteen  by  Sebtember." 

"Well,  you  mustn't  wait  till  September  to 
pay  Mr.  Karnowitz  —  you  must  sell  papers  or 
run  errands  or  do  something  to  earn  money  for 
that  window  this  summer.  Mr.  Karnowitz  is  a 
poor  man  —  he's  had  to  buy  a  new  window  to 
keep  his  goods  from  getting  spoiled  or  stolen  — 
you  must  pay  that  money  back  to  him  as  soon 
as  you  can  —  he  needs  it.  Will  you  promise  ?" 
Again  Herman  nodded.  "  Then  I'll  put  you  on 
probation  with  Miss  Tully ;  she'll  let  me  know 
how  you  get  on,  and  if  you  don't  keep  your  prom- 
ise she'll  tell  me  and  have  you  brought  here  again. 
And  the  next  time  I  can't  let  you  off  so  easy. 
Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  buzzer  sounded,  a  bailiff  ushering  a  big 
group  of  colored  persons  appeared  in  the  side 
door,  and  another  bailiff  directed  the  Rubovitzes 
and  Karnowitz  and  their  needless  witnesses  and 
friends  out  into  the  front  hall,  where  little  Beth 
Tully,  fair-haired  and  blue-eyed,  took  charge  of 
Herman  and  his  mother. 

"Where  do  you  live  ?"  she  askedMrs.  Rubovitz. 

"By  Henry  Streedt  —  twendy-one." 

"Why,  I  thought  you  looked  familiar!"  cried 
Beth.  "I've  seen  you  when  I've  been  to  call 
on  the  Casey s." 

"Caseys  liff  by  de  rear,"  said  Mrs.  Rubovitz, 
with  scorn.     "We  liff  by  de  frondt." 


JUST  FOLKS  59 

Beth  began  to  scent  a  caste  other  than  racial 
and  religious.  "I  am  very  fond  of  Mrs.  Casey," 
she  said  firmly.  Mrs.  Rubovitz  sniffed.  Beth 
turned  to  Herman.  "I'll  be  over  to  see  you  to- 
morrow, Herman,  and  we'll  talk  over  what  you 
had  better  do  about  earning  that  money." 

And  with  that  she  turned  and  went  back  into 
the  court  room.  Then  something  smote  her 
suddenly,  and  she  darted  out  again  and  into  the 
street  after  the  Rubovitzes. 

"I  want  you,"  she  said,  clutching  Mrs.  Rubo- 
vitz by  the  arm,  "to  promise  me  one  thing  — 
promise  me  you  won't  beat  Herman,  or  let  his 
father  beat  him  !  He's  going  to  do  what  he  can 
to  make  this  thing  right  —  he's  sorry  for  what 
happened,  and  he's  going  to  be  more  careful. 
I  don't  want  him  whipped." 

Mrs.  Rubovitz  stiffened.  "That  iss  parendt's 
beeziness,"  she  began. 

Beth  shook  her  sharply  by  the  arm.  "No,  it 
isn't,"  she  said.  "You  foreign  parents  think  it's 
the  most  of  your  business  ;  and  it  isn't.  You  beat 
all  the  spirit  out  of  your  children,  instead  of 
teaching  them  what  is  right.  Now,  if  you  beat 
Herman  for  this  —  for  being  arrested"  —  she 
caught  the  glitter  of  the  beadlike  eyes  —  "oh, 
yes  !  I  know  you  have  beaten  him  for  it  —  but 
if  you  do  it  again  —  now  —  when  you  get  home 
—  to-night  —  or  any  time  —  I'm  going  to  take 
him  away  from  you.     Do  you  hear  ?" 


60  JUST  FOLKS 

There  was  such  fire  in  the  little  "  p'leece  lady's  " 
tones  that  Mrs.  Rubovitz  shrank  away  from 
her.  "Yess,"  she  murmured,  "yess  —  I  ain'd 
goin'  to." 

But  Herman,  staring  with  wondering  big  eyes 
up  at  the  little  lady  who  was  standing  thus 
valiantly  between  him  and  a  fierce  whipping, 
slipped  a  dirty  small  hand  into  hers  and  squeezed 
it  silently.  And  Beth  knew  she  had  made  a 
friend. 

"I'll  bet  she  beat  him  anyway,"  said  Liza 
Allen,  with  angry  scepticism.  "Them  Roosians 
is  so  handy  with  their  beatin's." 

"No,  she  didn't,"  Beth  rejoined,  with  spirit, 
"for  I  made  the  Caseys  promise  to  tell  me  if  they 
heard  Herman  cry  —  and  I  made  Herman  swear 
his  most  solemn  and  sacred  'swear'  to  tell  me 
if  she  had  or  if  his  father  had.  Oh!"  Beth's 
blue  eyes  flashed  fire,  "if  I  couldn't  do  another 
thing  for  these  poor  children  of  the  foreigners  but 
save  them  a  few  of  the  beatings  that  are  always, 
always  coming  to  them  I'd  feel  as  if  my  labors 
were  worth  while.  Every  time,  as  I  go  through 
the  streets  or  up  into  the  tenements,  I  hear  that 
unmistakable  cry  of  a  child  being  whipped,  it 
freezes  the  very  blood  in  my  veins.  I  don't 
mean  that  a  child  who  is  too  young  to  reason 
with  ought  never  to  be  spanked  when  it  is  naughty, 
but  these  people  beat  their  children  —  little  and 


JUST  FOLKS  61 

big  —  cruelly.  The  law  of  this  country  ought 
not  to  allow  it." 

"How  many  Rubovitzes  are  there?"  Hart 
Ferris's  tone  was  cool,  casual,  but  Beth  knew  he 
was  trying  to  lead  her  from  the  subject  that 
stirred  her  to  such  a  trying  degree  and  made  her 
determined  little  voice  quaver  pathetically  with 
a  great  pity  and  indignation. 

"Seven  —  small  ones,"  she  answered,  giving 
him  a  grateful,  understanding  look,  "and  the 
parents  —  Russian  Jews.  He  is  what  the  Ghetto 
calls  a  'yunker,'  I  think  —  a  buyer  and  seller 
of  cast-off  somethings.  And  she  was  a  tailoress 
in  the  London  Ghetto  —  a  refugee  like  himself  — 
when  he  married  her  there.  I  believe  all,  or 
nearly  all,  the  children  were  born  here,  though. 
He's  good  for  nothing,  drunken,  and  cruel. 
When  she  asked  him  for  money  to  pay 
the  rent  so  they  wouldn't  get  '  set  out,'  what 
do  you  suppose  he  said  ?  'Why  should  I  pay 
rent  to  Mis'  Shugar?'  Mrs.  Shugar  is  the 
landlady.  'Ain'd  I  bin  in  this  coundry 
longer  ass  Mis'  Shugar  ?  An'  I  don'  own  no 
house'!" 

Ferris  laughed.  "That's  about  the  average 
political  economy  of  his  kind,"  he  said,  "and  I'll 
guarantee  he's  a  citizen  and  casts  his  vote,  and 
gets  it  counted  twice,  like  as  not !  Who  sup- 
ports them  ?" 

"The   mother,   if  you   can   call   it   support," 


62  JUST  FOLKS 

said  Beth,  "  aided  now  and  then  by  the  Hebrew 
Charities  or  by  the  county.  She  finishes  gar- 
ments for  a  sweat  shop  and  earns  about  sixty 
cents  a  day,  if  she  works  all  day.  I  don't  believe 
they  ever  have  a  meal  —  a  real  meal ;  the  loaf 
of  bread  lies  on  the  dirty  kitchen  table  all  the 
time,  and  the  tea-pot  boils  all  day  on  the  stove, 
and  maybe  there  is  a  piece  of  'smelly'  fish,  or 
some  scraps  of  meat  with  all  the  juice  'koshered' 
out  of  it ;  and  when  one  of  the  children  gets 
hungry  he  runs  in  and  grabs  a  bite  and  runs  out 
again  with  it  in  his  hand." 

"Them  furriners  has  tur'ble  tacky  ways  !" 
observed  Liza  Allen,  biting  off  a  thread.  Beth 
and  Ferris  loved  the  smugness  and  severity  of 
her  condemnation  —  her  complete  unconscious- 
ness that,  viewed  from  some  standpoints  they 
knew,  her  "ways"  were  hardly  a  degree  less 
"tacky"  than  the  ways  of  the  "Roosians." 

The  satisfiedness  of  Liza  was  never  offensive, 
and  never  harsh,  if  you  understood  her.  Rather 
was  it  a  never-failing  delight  —  yes,  and  a 
rebuke  !  Liza  was  complacent  about  Joe  and 
his  "learnin'"  and  his  handsome  funeral ;  about 
her  flat  and  its  elegant  comforts  ;  about  her 
American  birth,  and  her  membership  in  The 
Daughters  of  the  Bonny  Blue  Flag ;  she  was 
even  complacent  about  the  quality  of  her 
dressmaking,  and  felicitated  her  customers  that 
they  came  to  her  instead  of  getting  their  "goods 


JUST  FOLKS  63 

all  cobbled  up  by  some  of  the  folks  that  calls 
theirselves  dressmakers  in  these  days  !" 

She  was  whipping  the  seams  of  a  basque  now, 
and  Beth  was  threading  needles  for  her  as  usual ; 
while  Ferris,  who  had  been  discharged  from  his 
responsible  job  of  "pullin'  bastin's"  because  he 
"yanked  too  hard"  and  broke  the  threads,  was 
making  a  feint  of  being  busy  unravelling  the 
bastings  Beth  had  pulled,  and  winding  them 
carefully  on  a  spool,  to  be  used  again. 

The  weather  was  warm  now  —  hot,  sometimes, 
for  it  was  the  end  of  May —  and  Beth  and  Ferris 
might  reasonably  have  been  expected  to  spend  the 
evenings  when  he  came,  out  of  doors.  They 
did  sometimes,  but  oftener  it  was  —  to  Beth's 
secret  happiness  and  amusement  —  Ferris  himself 
who  proposed  staying  in  with  Liza.  Her  dis- 
cussions of  current  topics  —  world  affairs,  and 
national,  and  civic  —  gave  him  unlimited  en- 
joyment, and  copy. 

The  fact  that  Liza  seldom  stirred  far  from 
Maxwell  Street,  that  the  travels  of  her  lifetime 
were  comprised  in  that  one  memorable  flitting 
from  Steubenville  to  Chicago,  that  she  sat 
all  day  and  every  day,  and  far  into  the  nights, 
even  Sunday,  sometimes  —  "I  don't  b'leeve 
God  cares  a  mite  !"  she  said  about  this  Sabbath- 
breaking.  "Fust  time  I  done  it  I  was  plum 
scared  —  but,  land !  It's  like  fergettin'  yer 
prayers ;    after  you  done  it  a  couple  o'  times  an' 


64  JUST  FOLKS 

seen  things  moves  on  'bout  the  same  without 
your  orderin'  'em,  it  gits  so  easy  you  don'  notice 
it"  —  none  of  these  things  kept  Liza  from  com- 
menting freely  and  decisively  upon  matters 
of  the  deepest  philosophy  and  the  most  world- 
wide importance.  She  was  a  real  "cracker- 
barrel  sage"  in  petticoats,  and  Hart  Ferris, 
with  "Mr.  Dooley"  in  mind,  was  projecting  a 
"signed  column"  of  Liza's  wisdom  for  his 
paper. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  fine  poetic  justice,"  said 
Beth,  when  this  project  was  discovered  to  her, 
"if,  after  the  way  you  'took  on'  about  my  being 
in  the  slums  at  all,  and  my  coming  to  board  with 
Liza  in  particular,  she  should  turn  out  to  be  the 
fairy-godmother  of  your  writing  fortunes  ?  I 
tell  you,  Hart,  the  real  things,  worth  writing 
about,  are  over  here,  and  I'm  glad  there's  some- 
thing, if  it's  only  I,  that  brings  you  over  here, 
where  the  real  things  are." 

"The  Rubovitzes  are  likely  to  give  you  a  good 
deal  to  do,  I  should  think,"  Ferris  remarked  to 
Beth,  but  hoping  to  "draw  out"  Liza  Allen 
further  on  the  subject  of  aliens. 

Yes,  Beth  thought  it  more  than  likely  they 
would.  "There's  Pa,"  she  began,  then  checked 
herself  remembering  Pa  Casey.  "Of  course," 
she  went  on,  "I  don't  know  Pa  Rubovitz  or  what 
his  extenuating  virtues  are  —  if  any  !  But  on 
the  surface,  it  looks  as  if  Pa's  political  opinions, 


JUST  FOLKS  65 

at    least,    need    readjustment.     And    there's  — 
Why!     Who's  that?" 

There  were  sounds  of  hastening  feet  clattering, 
stumbling,  up  the  dark  stairs,  and  in  a  moment 
Liza's  sitting-room  door  burst  unceremoniously- 
open,  and  Herman  Rubovitz  stood  in  the 
doorway,  pale,  panting,  and  wild-eyed. 

"Teacher  !  Teacher  !"  he  cried,  when  he  saw 
Beth.  "Come  quick  !  Our  Abey's  got  a  fit  an' 
our  ma  ain't  to  home." 

Without  waiting  even  to  snatch  up  her  hat, 
Beth  followed  the  frantic  boy,  and  Ferris  followed 
her.  They  hurried  too  fast  to  talk,  but  fast  as 
Beth  and  Ferris  went,  Herman  outran  them  and 
left  them  to  finish  the  last  lap  of  their  race  un- 
guided  by  so  much  as  the  echo  of  his  flying  heels. 

It  was  almost  dog-day  hot  this  unseasonable 
May  night,  and  all  the  Ghetto  was  out  of  doors  ; 
some  were  asleep  on  door-steps,  garbage  boxes, 
and  elsewhere ;  others  sat,  talking  or  silent,  as 
was  their  nature,  dreading  the  return  to  stifling 
sleeping- rooms.  The  streets  were  full  of  children 
playing. 

Early  in  the  evening,  Dewey  Casey  had  laid 
himself  down  in  the  narrow  passageway  between 
the  tenement  he  lived  in  and  the  one  next  door, 
and  gone  to  sleep  ;  nor  was  he  disturbed  by  the 
cursing  of  those  who  stumbled  over  him  in  the 
pitchy  dark.  But  presently  some  one,  less  re- 
signed  to  obstacles   than   the  others,   removed 


66  JUST  FOLKS 

Dewey  from  the  path  with  no  gentle  foot,  and 
shrieks  of  resentment  rent  the  air. 

Mary  Casey  flew  to  the  rescue  and  carried 
Dewey,  kicking  and  screaming,  to  the  top  of 
the  stairs  which  led  down  from  the  sidewalk  to 
their  alleyway ;  there  she  sat  down  with  him 
and  tried  to  divert  his  mind  from  his  injuries 
by  urging  on  his  notice  such  objects  of  interest 
as  the  teeming  little  street,  gasping  for  breath 
on  a  muggy  night,  afforded.  She  was  sitting 
there,  about  nine  o'clock,  when  the  Rubovitz 
front  door  was  flung  open  and  Herman  made  a 
dash  for  the  steps,  crying,  "Ma !  Where's 
Ma?" 

"  Yer  ma  ain't  here,"  said  Mary  Casey,  making 
way  for  him.  "I  see  her  about  an  hour  ago,  her 
an'  the  two  little  gurls,  an'  first  they  stopped  to 
talk  wid  Mis'  Rosenberg,  thin  they  wint  on 
towards  Blue  Island  Avenoo." 

Herman  began  to  cry.  "Abey's  dyin',"  he 
sobbed,  and  fled  in  the  direction  of  the  avenue, 
where  he  kept  up  his  futile  calling  as  he  sped 
toward  Maxwell  Street  and  Beth. 

"Fer  the  love  o'  God!"  cried  Mary  Casey; 
and  gathering  up  the  now  sleeping  Dewey, 
she  hurried  down  the  steep,  creaking  stairs  into 
the  Stygian  blackness  in  which  the  lowest  step 
was  lost. 

Her  knock  brought  Rachel  Rubovitz,  a  wizened 
mite  of  ten,  to  the  door. 


JUST  FOLKS  6/ 

"What's  wrong  ?"  Mary  Casey  demanded  of 
her. 

For  answer  the  child  pointed  to  Abey,  the 
youngest  Rubovitz,  who  lay  limp  and  apparently 
lifeless  in  a  terrible  spasm. 

Mary  Casey  was  tolerably  familiar  with  spasms 
and  she  made  haste  to  light  the  oil-stove  and  set 
on  a  kettle  of  water,  which  was,  she  remem- 
bered, the  first  thing  the  doctor  always  ordered 
when  any  of  her  children  had  "been  took." 

Mrs.  Rubovitz,  it  seemed,  had  left  Abey  asleep 
on  the  bed  in  one  of  the  windowless,  stifling  closets 
that  served  the  Rubovitzes  for  bedrooms.  Ra- 
chel was  charged  to  "mind  him,"  and  told 
to  give  him  a  drink  of  milk  if  he  woke  up.  He 
had  waked,  poor  little  mite,  steaming  and  cross, 
as  he  had  a  right  to  be,  and  Rachel  had  given 
him  the  cup  of  milk  her  mother  left  on  the  kitchen 
table  for  that  purpose. 

Abey  drank  it  greedily,  crying  between  gulps, 
and  then,  "hardly  he  hadn't  it  down,"  Rachel 
explained,  "when  he  gives  a  queer  noise  and 
goes  like  that." 

He  was  still  "like  that,"  stark  and  still, 
Mary  Casey  weeping  softly  over  him  and  crooning 
to  him  while  she  tried  to  chafe  his  little  rigid 
limbs,  when  Beth  and  Ferris  got  there. 

It  was  a  picture  for  a  modern  Rembrandt, 
a  picture  of  more  compelling  human  interest 
than  "The  School  of  Anatomy."     The  Rubovitz 


68  JUST  FOLKS 

kitchen  was  dark  and  dirty,  with  a  kind  of  an- 
cient, old-world  darkness  and  dirtiness  which 
seemed  to  invest  the  Henry  Street  cellar  with  an 
air  as  of  centuries  of  grime  and  poverty.  The 
lamp  on  the  bracket  above  the  sink  only  faintly 
lighted  the  room  and  the  faces  which  showed 
so  white  and  anxious  against  the  dusk  as  they 
bent  over  the  stark  atom  of  humanity  in  the 
wash-tub. 

There  was  almost  an  hour  of  intense  battle  for 
that  little  life  before  a  doctor  came  —  many 
doctors  practise  in  the  Ghetto,  but  not  many 
live  there  —  and  when  Ferris  finally  got  back 
with  a  man  who  knew  what  to  do,  and  could  do  it, 
and  realized  that  it  was  not  too  late,  that  Abey 
might  still  be  saved,  he  was  conscious  of  an 
exultation  he  would  never  have  dreamed  possible 
over  a  child  he  had  not  seen  before.  The  splendid, 
swelling  passion  of  the  saver  of  life,  of  the  life  of 
a  helpless  little  child  in  agony,  filled  his  veins  with 
a  strange  new  feeling,  and  as  he  mopped  his 
streaming  brow  and  watched  the  look  of  life 
come  back  into  Abey's  wee  white  body,  he  was 
aware  of  a  revulsion  from  sick  fear  to  restored 
confidence  that  quite  unnerved  him. 

He  looked  around  for  Beth,  and  found  that 
with  her,  too,  the  reaction  had  been  strong; 
for  when  she  knew  that  Abey  would  live,  she 
had    sat    weakly    down,  faint  with    the  fright 


JUST  FOLKS  69 

that  comes  to  us  after  a  danger  has  been 
passed. 

"It  isn't  his  teeth,"  said  the  man  of  medicine, 
when  he  had  pried  open  Abey's  mouth  and 
examined  his  gums.  "What  has  he  had  to 
eat?" 

Rachel  told  about  the  milk.  Was  there  any 
left  ?  No,  Abey  had  drained  the  cup.  Where 
had  they  bought  it  ?  At  Goldstein's  store 
on  Henry  Street. 

To  Ferris  the  doctor  murmured  something 
about  "formalin,"  and  gave  Abey  an  antidote. 
Then  he  signed  to  Ferris  to  go  with  him,  and  the 
two  men  made  their  way  to  the  top  of  the  creaking 
stairs  and  along  staring  Henry  Street  —  fully 
informed  of  all  that  had  happened  to  Abey  — 
to  the  store. 

The  store  was  closed,  but  Goldstein  answered 
the  doctor's  knocking  and  came  to  the  door 
through  which,  the  moment  he  opened  it,  mingled 
smells,  all  bad,  rushed  assaultingly.  Barrels  of 
salt  fish  stank  abominably,  and  mingled  with 
their  dominant  smell  was  an  indescribable  accom- 
paniment of  kerosene,  sauerkraut,  rank  vinegar, 
musty  flour,  decaying  fruits  and  vegetables,  and 
hideous  cheese. 

"I  want  to  buy  some  milk,"  the  doctor  said. 
Goldstein  struck  a  match  and  lighted  the  lamp 
which  hung  from  the  low  ceiling.  "Nod  much 
off  milk  iss  left,"  he  said  sourly. 


jo  JUST  FOLKS 

"Where  do  you  get  your  milk?"  the  doctor 
asked. 

Goldstein  was  half  asleep,  but  he  was  not  to  be 
caught  napping.  Meddling  persons  had  come 
around  before,  inquiring  into  the  condition  of  his 
goods,  and  he  resented  it ;  it  was  part  of  the  un- 
just persecution  of  the  chosen  people,  he  felt, 
and  racial  as  well  as  personal  duty  demanded 
that    he    frustrate    these    persons    if    he    could. 

"By  a  milkman  —  hees  name  I  do  nod  know," 
said  Israel. 

"I'll  give  you  till  ten  o'clock  to-morrow  morn- 
ing to  remember  his  name,"  the  doctor  replied. 
"  If  you  can't  — the  police  will  have  to  help  you." 

Then,  in  a  flood  of  recollection,  it  came  over 
Israel  who  that  milkman  was. 

Somehow,  as  Ferris  said,  when  you  have 
fought  for  the  life  of  a  kid  —  even  if  your  part 
of  the  fight  has  only  been  in  running  like  mad 
for  the  doctor  —  and  have  won,  you  can't  ever 
feel  quite  ordinary  and  indifferent  about  that 
kid  any  more.  You  kind  of  want  him  to  thrive 
and  prosper  and  grow  up  into  a  good  kid  if 
only  to  prove  to  you  and  to  the  world  how  well 
worth  your  effort  to  save  him  he  was. 

Ferris  felt  that  way  about  Abey,  and  about 
the  Rubovitzes  as  Abey's  kin.  He  wrote  a  story 
for  the  paper  about  the  formalin  poisoning,  and 
the  story  —  doubtless   because  he  was  writing 


JUST  FOLKS  71 

intimately,  from  a  particular  case,  and  not 
broadly,  in  generalities  —  was  very  appealing, 
and  started  a  fresh  wave  of  indignation  and  re- 
form directed  against  the  unscrupulous  dealers 
who  risk  the  lives  of  little  children.  And  the 
managing  editor  praised  the  story,  and  said  Ferris 
ought  to  be  given  more  of  that  sort  of  thing  to 
do.  "It's  in  the  air  and  people  like  it."  And 
two  women's  clubs  asked  Ferris  to  come  and  tell 
them  about  the  best  ways  to  crusade  for  pure 
milk.  Ferris  didn't  relish  this  very  much,  but 
it  was  a  "good  card"  for  him  with  the  managing 
editor.  He  didn't  know  much  about  the  milk 
supply,  but  he  set  himself  to  find  out ;  and  when 
he  had  learned  something  about  it,  he  found  it 
so  interesting  that  he  could  stand  up  and  talk 
to  the  women's  clubs  about  it  with  no  sense  of 
being  "dinky,"  as  he  had  at  first  declared  he 
should  feel,  and  with  an  earnestness  which  moved 
the  women  to  do  real  things  for  the  cause. 

Thus  Ferris  was  finding  out  for  himself,  as 
each  of  us  must  if  we  are  ever  to  know  it  at  all, 
the  one  particular  wherein  "the  slums"  —  so- 
called  —  contradict  rather  than  confirm  a  general 
principle  of  human  nature.  Usually,  where  we 
go  expecting  to  get  rather  than  to  give,  we  get 
least.  But  not  so  in  the  slurns.  No  one  gets 
anything  appreciable  from  the  slums,  who  goes 
there  full  of  the  idea  of  wThat  he  is  about  to  give 
them.     Liza  Allen   had   begun   to   show   Ferris 


72  JUST  FOLKS 

what  the  slums  could  give  him,  and  Abey  Rubo 
vitz  —  no  more  unconsciously  than  Liza  —  had 
continued  the  demonstration. 

When  the  excitement  about  Abey's  "fit" 
had  died  down  —  and  perhaps  you  think  there 
wasn't  envy  in  Henry  Street,  where  fits  are 
common,  to  see  how  much  was  made  of  Abey's  ! 
—  Ferris  began  to  feel  almost  as  much  stared 
in  the  face  by  the  Rubovitz  necessities  as  if  he 
and  not  Pa  were  responsible  for  the  family  wel- 
fare. For,  of  course,  when  you've  helped  to 
save  a  baby  from  death  by  poisoned  food,  you 
hate  to  see  him  die  from  no  food  at  all ! 

A  fellow  learned  a  lot  of  things  when  he  found 
himself  in  the  position  of  guide,  philosopher, 
and  friend  to  a  family  like  the  Rubovitzes. 

First  of  all,  there  was  Herman's  promise  to  earn 
the  money  to  pay  Karnowitz.  Ferris  investi- 
gated and  found  that  Karnowitz  was  more  than 
able  to  wait.  But  when  he  reported  this  to  Beth, 
that  small  person  shook  her  head  and  murmured 
something  about  "the  law." 

"Herman  broke  the  window,  and  he  promised 
to  pay,"  she  said.  "The  law  takes  no  cognizance 
of  the  fact  that  Herman  needs  bread  and  Karno- 
witz owns  three  houses  on  Twelfth  Street.  It 
is  bad  for  Herman  to  be  hungry,  but  it  would  be 
worse  for  him  to  have  our  aid  in  evading  the  law." 
,    "Oh,  hang  the  law!"  said  Ferris,  crossly. 

Beth    opened    her    blue    eyes   wide    in   well- 


JUST  FOLKS  73 

simulated  surprise.  "Why,  Hart  Ferris  !"  she 
said. 

"You  know  what  I  mean !"  he  retorted, 
"The  law's  all  right  —  in  the  abstract  —  I  sup- 
pose. But  when  you  get  down  to  cases  it  doesn't 
ever  seem  to  fit." 

"No,"  Beth  agreed  soberly,  "it  doesn't.  But 
we  can't  tell  Herman  that  —  not  yet !" 

So  Herman  was  relentlessly  supervised  in  the 
weekly  handing  over  of  his  newspaper  pennies 
to  Karnowitz  until  the  truly  awful  sum  of  four 
dollars  had  been  paid. 

Meantime,  of  course,  Ferris  was  not  only 
slipping  Mrs.  Rubovitz  a  dollar  or  two  every 
time  he  came,  but  he  was  telling  his  friends  about 
her  and  getting  here  a  bit  and  there  a  bit,  to 
help  her.  He  "passed  the  hat"  in  the  city  room 
when  the  rent  had  to  be  paid,  and  raged  silently 
as  he  gave  the  money  into  Mrs.  Shugar's  own 
hands,  to  think  how  complacently  Pa  would 
accept  it  as  America's  due  to  him. 

Like  a  good  many  other  earnest  persons  bat- 
tling with  pain  and  want  and  aspiring  to  find  a 
panacea,  Ferris  was  glad  oftentimes  —  when 
even  individual  cure  seemed  beyond  hope  —  to 
grasp  at  the  merest  alleviation. 

About  the  middle  of  June,  an  alleviation  pre- 
sented   itself.     It    was    called    "The    Greatest 


74  JUST  FOLKS 

Show  on  Earth  or  Elsewhere!"  and  Ferris, 
knowing  the  chief  press  agent,  got  "quite  a 
bunch"  of  tickets. 

He  was  more  delighted  than  Beth  had  ever 
seen  him,  for  he  was  going  to  take  Liza  Allen 
and  a  whole  flock  of  Rubovitzes  and  Caseys. 
Liza  had  been  to  a  circus  once  in  Steubenville, 
with  Adam  Spear,  forty  years  ago,  but  none  of  the 
Caseys  or  Rubovitzes  had  even  the  faintest  idea 
what  a  circus  was  like. 

In  vain,  except  for  Beth's  secret  amusement, 
Ferris  "lined  up"  his  prospective  party  before 
the  hoardings  on  Blue  Island  Avenue  and  pointed 
out  tigers,  and  elephants,  and  giraffes,  and  rhi- 
noceroses, and  performing  seals.  The  "fauna" 
of  Henry  Street  was  limited  to  horse,  dog,  cat, 
and  butcher-shop  chicken,  and  Henry  Street 
stood  unmoved  before  the  lithographs  of  creatures 
it  could  not  comprehend. 

"Wait  till  they  see  them!"  Ferris  said  to 
Beth.     Also,  alas,  in  vain  ! 

The  party  arrived  early,  to  inspect  the  menag- 
erie at  leisure  and  get  back  to  their  seats  before 
the  "  grand  entry."  Speechless  they  stood  before 
the  long  line  of  elephants  swinging  their  restless 
trunks  and  opening  wide  their  mouths  in  frequent 
invitations  for  small  peanuts.  Presently,  "What 
hangs  down?"  whispered  Benny  Rubovitz  to 
Beth,  in  a  tone  more  alarmed  than  merely  in- 
quiring. 


JUST  FOLKS  75 

The  wolves  and  bears  and  sundry  other  animals 
passed  more  or  less  unnoticed,  as  "dogs"  of 
strange  breeds.  Little  Rosie  Rubovitz,  next 
older  than  Abey,  was  in  Ferris's  arms  and,  at 
sight  of  the  lions,  her  lovely  little  face  dimpled 
with  pleasure.  "Kittie !  Kittie!"  she  cried, 
and  reached  out  her  tiny  hand  as  if  to  "pat." 
It  was  Mollie  Casey  who  capped  the  climax, 
though.  Turning  from  the  camels,  with  a  look 
of  deep  disgust,  she  said  to  Beth,  "I  don't 
like  thim  very  well,  do  you?" 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Beth  to  Ferris  in  an  under- 
tone, "  that  our  guests  are  a  little  shy  on  natural 
history,  to  get  a  great  deal  out  of  this." 

"Natural  history,  nothing!"  Ferris  returned, 
with  spirit.  "They're  shy  on  the  commonest 
rights  of  childhood  —  that's  what  they're  shy 
on  ! 

But,  notwithstanding  their  acceptance  of  danc- 
ing elephants  and  band-playing  seals  as  ordi- 
nary —  for  all  the  children  knew,  these  were  the 
regular  pastimes  of  the  strange  animals  in  their 
native  haunts — Ferris's  party  had  an  exceedingly 
good  time  at  the  circus.  They  loved  the 
"purrade,"  shrieked  at  the  clowns,  and  rose  — 
the  boys  of  them  —  to  a  perfect  frenzy  of  excite- 
ment over  some  of  the  acrobatics,  and  particu- 
larly over  the  men  who  rode,  standing,  two  horses 
at  once,  while  driving  a  long  string  of  others 
ahead. 


76  JUST  FOLKS 

"Gee  !"  breathed  Johnny  Casey,  standing  up 
and -watching,  watching,  with  straining,  staring 
eyes.  "That's  something  to  do  —  all  right,  all 
right!" 

"I'm  glad  'tain't  me  that  has  to  earn  my  livin' 
that  way,"  observed  Liza,  devoutly.  She  didn't 
say  much  else,  but  Beth  and  Ferris  both  knew  the 
greatest  pleasure  she  got  out  of  the  circus  was 
feeling  sorry  for  the  "folks"  that  were  obliged 
to  be  in  it. 

During  an  interval  when  the  clowns  were  the 
chief  performers  and  the  children  were  laughing 
hysterically,  Liza  seemed  lost  in  thought  so 
serious  that  Beth  asked  her  suggestively,  "What 
is  it?" 

"I  was  thinkin'  'bout  Mis'  Nation,"  said  Liza, 
abstractedly. 

"Mis'  Who?" 

"Carrie  Nation."  One  of  the  clowns  was  im- 
personating Carrie  with  her  hatchet.  "She's 
a  consid'rable  younger  'n'  spryer  woman'n  I 
took  her  to  be." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  wasn't  a  very  successful  party," 
said  Ferris  to  Beth  when  he  was  bidding  her 
good  night  at  the  top  of  Liza  Allen's  dark  stairs. 

"It  was  a  very  successful  party,"  Beth  assured 
him,  with  a  tender  little  emphasis  of  her  own 
sweet  kind,  "and  don't  you  ever  doubt  it.  It's 
no  sign  of  failure  because  they  didn't  get  exactly 


JUST  FOLKS  77 

what  you  thought  they'd  get  out  of  it.  Joy 
is  a  various  commodity,  dear.  And  don't  you 
ever  tell  Liza  it  wasn't  really  Carrie  Nation  she 
saw.     It  would  break  her  heart!" 

When  Herman's  debt  to  Karnowitz  was  paid, 
school  was  out  and  Ferris  undertook  to  see  what 
he  could  do  about  getting  Herman  a  permit  to 
work  at  some  slightly  safer  and  surer  calling  than 
"flipping"  Halsted  Street  cars  selling  newspapers. 
Herman  would  be  fourteen  in  September,  and 
Ferris  apprehended  no  difficulty  in  getting  him 
a  permit  from  the  state  factory  inspector.  But 
Ferris,  being  a  newspaper  man,  ought  to  have 
known  better.  A  wave  of  outraged  public  senti- 
ment had  recently  hit  the  always  indefatigable 
office  of  the  factory  inspector  very  hard,  and  zeal 
for  the  saving  of  little  children  had  mounted  on 
the  crest  of  the  wave  to  frenzy.  As  must  happen, 
doubtless,  when  any  fine  reform  is  to  be  carried 
through,  a  great  deal  of  unnecessary  and  un- 
discriminating  rigor  bore  heavily  upon  many 
who  might  well  have  been  spared. 

Herman  was  not  fourteen,  and  he  couldn't 
have  a  permit.  That  was  all  there  was  to  it ! 
The  inspector  was  firm. 

"He  iss  fourdeen  by  Sebtember  t'ird,"  urged 
Mrs.  Rubovitz.  "He  cand't  go  to  school  no 
more  before  he  iss  fourdeen  —  there  iss  no  more 
school  before  he  iss  fourdeen.     How  can  he  go  to 


78  JUST  FOLKS 

school  till  he  iss  fourdeen,~when  it  iss  no  more 
school  before  he  iss  fourdeen  ?  He's  fourdeen 
by  Sebtember  t'ird.  It  iss  no  more  school 
before  Sebtember  t'ird  !     How  can  — " 

"That  will  do  !"  yelled  the  inspector,  trying  to 
stem  the  torrent  of  language  which  was  increasing 
in  volume  and  velocity  until  a  catastrophe 
threatened.  But  the  permit  was  not  forth- 
coming. 

"Sucha  lawss!"  declared  Mrs.  Rubovitz  to 
Ferris  as  they  came  away.  "Bedtter  we  might 
have  staid  by  Roosia  —  there  at  leasd  one  can 
vork!" 

Ferris  made  a  faint  effort  to  placate,  to  explain, 
but  Mrs.  Rubovitz  was  not  inclined  for  peace. 

"Und  look  at  dose  schoolss !"  she  cried, 
"Whad  do  dey  teach  by  dem  that  iss  so  much 
bedtter  ass  to  vork  ?  Always  my  Rosie  comes 
home  und  brings  a  leaf,  und  'Look,  ma,  by  de 
fairies'  carped!'  she  sayss.  Dey  learn  dem  to 
oh  !  an'  vonder  by  everyt'ing.  Whad  way  iss 
dat  ?  I  ask  you.  Do  I  vish  my  Rosie  by  some- 
body's house  to  bring  und  dat  she  should  oh  ! 
und  vonder  about  everyt'ing,  like  a  child  dat's 
never  seen  nothing  to  home  ?  Und  las'  vinter 
dey  tried  to  gif  de  childerns  bat's  [baths]  und  my 
Jonah  comes  home  und  'Ma,  I  shouldt  be  vashed  ! ' 
he  sayss,  und  how  de  teacher  tried  to  have  him 
scrubbed  all  over  he  tells  me,  bud  he  screamed 
und  vould  not ;  und  she  says  come  home  und  tell 


JUST  FOLKS  79 

me  he  must  be  bat'd,  und  I  sayss  'You  can  tell 
her  I  chust  god  you  sewed  ub  for  de  vinter  und 
I  ain'd  goin'  to  take  off  your  clodes  before  it  iss 
spring,  nod  for  no  one.'     Sucha  lawss  !" 

"And  you  can't  really  blame  her  for  getting 
mad,"  said  Ferris,  telling  Beth  about  his  ex- 
perience, "for  it's  all  in  the  point  of  view,  and  to 
Mrs.  Rubovitz's  present  viewpoint  our  benevo- 
lent laws  are  harder  to  bear  than  Russian  tyr- 
anny." 

Beth  didn't  say  anything — just  narrowed  her 
blue  eyes  in  their  funny  little  squint,  and  looked 
at  Ferris.  He  was  learning  fairly  fast,  she  de- 
cided. But  she  was  surprised,  a  few  nights  later, 
when  she  had  a  new  way  of  measuring  just  what 
Hart  Ferris  had  learned  from  Maxwell  and  Henry 
Streets. 

Back  in  the  spring  evenings  by  Liza's  lamp, 
Liza  had  begun  to  show  at  times  a  lagging  list- 
lessness  that  was  most  unusual  with  her.  And 
one  night  the  secret  of  it  had  come  out :  Joe's 
fun'ral  was  most  paid  for !  A  week  or  two 
more  of  unwearying  work,  a  couple  more  pay- 
ments, and  the  splendid  tribute  for  which  she 
had  been  toiling  for  five  years  would  become  a 
memory  —  a  memory  only,  after  having  been 
an  ever-present  incentive  through  all  those  years 
it  had  redeemed  from  loneliness. 

"Dunno  how  it'll  seem  —  workin'   along  fer 


80  JUST  FOLKS 

just  rent  an'  vittles,"  said  Liza,  admitting  her 
quandary  to  Beth  and  Ferris.  "I  ain't  never 
done  it  in  my  hull  life.  Even  when  Joe  was  took 
I  wasn't  so  bad  off,  fer  I  had  his  fun'ral  to  work 
fer.  But  the  way  things  are  gittin'  now,  I  don't 
see  nothin'  ahead." 

Beth  didn't  know  quite  how  much  Ferris 
appreciated  this  point  of  view  of  Liza's,  but  she 
was  to  find  out.  He  appeared  at  Maxwell 
Street,  one  evening  in  July,  so  evidently  bursting 
with  suppressed  excitement  that  he  at  once 
communicated  to  Beth  his  fever  of  anxiety  to  get 
out  of  the  house  and  away  where  private  talk 
was  possible. 

"What  is  it  ?"  she  begged,  almost  the  moment 
they  were  out  of  Liza's  hearing. 

"Beth!"  he  said  —  and  after  she  had  heard 
his  news  she  loved  him  for  the  tremor  in  his 
voice,  for  the  feeling  it  betrayed  —  "Beth,  dear, 
what  do  you  think  ?     I've  found  Adam  Spear  !" 

"Adam  Spear?" 

"Yes  !  Liza's  Adam  Spear,  who  left  her  forty 
years  ago  for  sticking  to  her  worthless  brother 
Joe." 

"Why,  Hart,  however  —  where?  Now  don't 
tell  me  he  owns  a  lumber-yard  and  rides  in  a 
limousine." 

"Better  than  that!"  Ferris's  voice  was  very 
"trembly,"  and  he  squeezed  hard  the  small  hand 
he  had  drawn  through  his  arm.     "Better  than 


JUST  FOLKS  8 1 

that  —  for  Liza,  dear  !  He's  poor  and  old  and 
homeless  and  decrepit.  Won't  she  be  happy  with 
him  ?  And  hasn't  he  come  back  to  her  in  the 
nick  of  time  ?" 

Then  he  told  her  about  finding  Adam.  "When 
Liza  first  told  us  about  him,"  he  said,  "I  had  a 
queer,  'kid  notion'  how  romantic  it  would  be  if 
he  should  come  back  —  now  that  Joe's  dead  and 
his  funeral  paid  for  —  and  make  things  up  to  her 
for  all  the  past,  in  some  fairy-tale  way.  Then  I 
laughed  at  myself  for  even  thinking  such  a  By- Joe 
melodrama  could  ever  happen  in  real  life,  and 
forgot  all  about  Adam  Spear,  until  to-day,  when 
I  went  out  to  Hegewisch  to  look  up  a  'murder 
mystery.'  I  didn't  find  any  very  exciting  evi- 
dences of  a  murder,  or  a  mystery,  but  I  found  an 
old  man  who  does  odd  jobs  about  a  carpenter 
shop,  who  was  said  to  '  know  's  much  about  it 's 
anybody.'  I  guess  he  did,  but  it  wasn't  much. 
He  was  a  gabby  old  party,  and  to  get  out  of 
him  what  I  wanted,  I  had  to  let  him  tell  me  about 
everything  he  knew.  Somewhere  in  the  auto- 
biography, I  caught  'Steubenville,'  and  kind  o' 
'came  to.'  'What  did  you  say  your  name  was  ?' 
I  asked  him.  And  when  he  said  'Spear  — Adam 
Spear,'  well,  Beth,  you  should  have  seen  Your 
Only  True  Love,  here  !  I  guess  for  a  minute 
Adam  thought  I  was  crazy.  '  Liza  Allen's  beau  ? ' 
I  cried,  almost  pouncing  on  him.  'Well,  I 
uster  be,'  he  admitted,  without  any  emotion  that 


82  JUST  FOLKS 

I  could  see.  'Are  you  —  are  you  —  married  ? ' 
I  hastened  to  ask.  No,  he  wasn't,  'ner  hadn't 
never  been.  Women  folks  is  all  right  fer  some, 
but  if  you  kin  git  along  without  'em  they're 
more  bother'n  they're  worth.'  " 

Ferris  looked  down  at  Beth.  He  wanted  to  see 
her  "sniff." 

"I  hope  you  know  a  good  bluff  when  you  see 
one,"  she  said  briefly. 

"I  do,"  he  answered,  "and  what's  more,  I 
know  better  than  to  call  it.  I  used  to  think  it  was 
smart  to  call  a  fellow's  bluff — I  know  better  now." 

Beth  smiled  appreciatively  up  at  him.  "And 
so  ?"  she  said. 

"And  so  I  told  him  about  Liza,  and  about 
Joe's  death,  and  —  " 

"When's  he  coming  ?" 

"Well,  I  think  that  with  a  little  urging  —  to 
encourage  the  bluff  —  he  would  have  come  to- 
night. But  I  thought  I'd  better  wait  and  ask  you 
what  your  guess  about  Liza  is." 

"Could  you  get  him  to-morrow  ?"  Beth  asked 
quickly. 

"Is  that  your  guess  ?" 

Beth  was  quiet  for  a  moment,  then  answered 
with  a  nod.  "If  you  can  call  it  a  guess,"  she 
said  presently,  and  her  tone  was  very  soft,  her 
manner  full  of  self-searching  thoughtfulness. 
"Liza's  a  woman,  and  it's  hardly  guessing  —  with 
women." 


JUST  FOLKS  83 

There  was  a  wistful  light  in  Ferris's  eyes. 
"Then  the  men  who  fail  of  success  don't  fail  of 
everything,  do  they  ?  " 

Beth  shook  her  head. 

"It's  a  world  of  compensations,  isn't  it?" 
said  Ferris,  looking  up  at  the  friendly  stars. 
"And  everything's  in  the  point  of  view." 


Having  found  Adam,  Hart  Ferris  felt  that  all 
there  remained  to  be  done  was  to  help  plan  the 
details  of  "a  nice  little  wedding." 

But  Beth  eyed  him  in  surprise  that  one  who 
had  been  under  her  teaching  so  long  should  still 
know  so  little.  "Wedding?"  she  said,  "why, 
they  aren't  even  engaged  !" 

"But  you  said  you  were  sure  that  Liza  would 
want  him,"  Ferris  urged. 

"I  know  I  did  !  I  know  she  does  —  but  you 
don't  suppose  she'll  let  him  find  it  out  right  away, 
do  you  ?" 

It  was  Ferris's  turn  to  look  amazed.  "Right 
away  ?"  he  echoed  uncomprehendingly.  "Why, 
they  were  engaged  'way  back  in  sixty-something- 
or-other !" 

"An  engagement  is  outlawed  after  fourteen 
years,"  observed  Beth,  promptly. 

"Well,"  sighed  Ferris,  "I  hope  they  don't 
want  to  wait  around  for  forty  years  more  before 
they  get  married." 

"I  don't  think  they  will,"  Beth  assured  him, 
"but  you  must  give  them  time  to  court.  Liza's  a 
woman,  and  I  don't  believe  women  change  very 

84 


JUST  FOLKS  85 

much  between  seventeen  and  seventy.  Liza 
makes  wrappers  for  the  Ghettoites,  at  fifty  cents 
'fer  the  makin','  but  she's  a  coquette  to  the  core 
for  all  of  that  and  her  white  hair,  and  Adam'll 
have  to  'set  up  to'  her,  unless  I'm  much  mis- 
taken." 

"I  thought  she'd  be  crazy  to  get  him  back  — 
now  that  Joe's  funeral's  paid  for." 

"  So  she  will  be  —  but  she  won't  let  him  find 
it  out  too  soon  to  spoil  the  interest.  Of  course 
she'll  marry  him,  and  support  him,  and  give  him 
the  last  drop  of  her  poor  old  heart's  blood,  if  he 
needs  or  wants  it.  But  she'll  make  him  'walk 
chalk,'  first." 

"Oh!"  said  Ferris  —  convinced,  but  not  en- 
lightened. 

"A  woman's  got  to  have  her  way  some  time  — 
or  think  she's  having  it,"  Beth  observed  sagely, 
"and,  as  Liza  herself  would  say,  'Them  as  has 
it  before,  ain't  half  so  likely  to  be  standin' 
out  fer  it  afterwards.'" 

She  was  right.  As  old  Adam  Spear  had 
bluffed  to  Ferris  about  "women  folks  bein'  all 
right  fer  some ;  but  if  you  kin  git  along  without 
'em,  they're  more  bother'n  they're  worth," 
so  Liza  bluffed  to  Beth  when  Beth  told  her. 

"I  ain't  surprised  he  never  married,"  was 
Liza's  first  remark  after  Beth's  story  had  come 
tumbling  excitedly  out,  "he  was  awful  cut  up 
'bout  me  —  an'  then  !  wouldn't  nobody  but  an 


86  JUST  FOLKS 

awful  stiddy  woman  ever  have  tackled  Adam 
Spear  —  an'  he  wa'n't  never  one  to  keer  much 
about  mere  stiddiness,  less'n  it  had  some  ginger 
'long  with  it  —  which  most  stiddy  women  lacks 
poor  things  !"  It  was  evident  from  Liza's  man- 
ner that  while  she  might  plead  guilty  to  some 
"stiddiness,"  it  was  the  ginger  that  was  her  pride. 

"I  told  him,"  ventured  Ferris,  almost  persuaded 
by  Liza's  magnificent  nonchalance  that  she 
didnH  really  care,  "that  I  thought  you'd  be  — 
willing  for  him  to  —  to  call." 

Liza  bit  off  a  thread  and  made  a  new  knot  on 
the  end  of  it.  "Oh,  I  don'  mind  —  if  he's  set 
on  it"  she  said. 

Accordingly,  it  then  became  Ferris's  delicate 
task  to  see  Adam  Spear  and  appeal  to  his  chiv- 
alry with  an  account  of  Liza's  intense  eagerness 
to  see  her  old  beau  again. 

"Well,"  Adam  agreed  at  last,  yielding  hand- 
somely, "when  you  put  it  that  way,  does  seem's 
if  I'd  kind  of  ought  to  go." 

So  he  went.  Ferris  took  him,  one  evening. 
He  and  Beth  had  planned  how  they  might  slip 
away  and  leave  the  old  folks  alone  to  get  over  their 
explanations  and  to  commence  their  courting, 
but  Liza  forestalled  Beth's  amiable  intention 
by  saying:  "Now,  I  don'  want  no  foolishness ! 
You  two  jest  set  right  here  an'  act  's  if  nothin' 
had  happened.  I  don't  intend  to  have  Adam 
Spear   a-palaverin'   'round  me   an'   makin'  out 


JUST  FOLKS  87 

how  I've  blasted  his  life,  an'  the  like  o'  that. 
Course  I'm  sorry  fer  him  fer  bein'  sich  a  fool's  he 
was  —  but  'tain't  goin'  to  help  matters  now  to 
tell  him  of  it!" 

And  Adam  had  similarly  checked  Ferris's  plan. 
"I  hope  she  ain't  turned  out  to  be  one  o'  these 
here  hystericky  women,"  he  murmured  as  they 
neared  Maxwell  Street;  "I  alius  did  hate  fer  a 
woman  to  take  on  over  me.  Don't  you  go  off  an' 
leave  me,  young  fella  —  an'  if  she  begins  to  git 
weepy,  or  to  hold  it  agin  me  that  I  didn't  marry 
her,  I  tell  you,  I  won't  stay!"  Thus  adjured, 
Beth  and  Ferris  chaperoned  the  meeting. 

About  six  o'clock  on  the  appointed  evening, 
Beth  came  in  from  her  round  of  visiting  juvenile 
delinquents  and  dependents,  and  found  Liza 
kneeling  on  the  floor  before  the  kitchen  table, 
awkwardly  wielding  the  flat-iron  over  her  weird- 
looking  " horns"  of  front  hair;  Liza's  method  of 
crimping  was  to  wet  her  hair,  wind  it  on  large 
steel  pins,  and  iron  it  dry  —  a  troublesome 
method  to  which  she  did  not  resort  except 
for  especial  occasions.  And  Liza  did  not  like  to 
admit  that  this  was  a  special  occasion.  She 
scrambled  to  her  feet  guiltily  and  confronted 
Beth  defiantly.  "I  alius  have  to  crimp  my  hair 
when  I've  washed  my  head,"  she  began  at  once, 
as  if  Beth  had  questioned  her;  "otherwise  I'm 
a  sight  to  behold."  Beth  wondered  what  excuse 
Liza   would   offer   for  wearing   her   good   dress 


88  JUST  FOLKS 

on  a  Wednesday  evening  —  for  of  course  she'd 
wear  it,  and  of  course  she  wouldn't  admit  why. 
But  the  excuse  was  forthcoming.  "Declare  to 
goodness,"  cried  Liza,  raising  her  right  arm  and 
disclosing  a  gaping  worn  place  which  Beth  had 
been  noting  since  Monday  morning,  "if  this 
wrapper  ain't  a-droppin'  off  me  !  I'll  set  right 
down,  now,  an'  mend  it  while  I  think  of  it." 
And  "set"  she  did  —  but  she  put  on  her  good 
dress  before  "settin',"  although  it  was  a  "stuff" 
dress,  and  the  night  was  warm.  She  wore  her 
"broach,"  too,  and  her  apron  with  the  crochet 
edge.  And  when  she  had  gone  thus  far,  she 
seemed  to  think  candor  the  best  policy;  for 
"I  guess  Adam  Spear'll  see  that  a  woman  with 
sperrit  ain't  got  to  be  hitched  to  no  man,  to  git 
along  in  this  world  !"  she  remarked. 

For  the  occasion,  too,  all  sewing  was  put  by, 
and  Liza  was  reading  The  News,  like  a  lady  of 
elegant  leisure,  when  Adam  was  ushered  in. 

"Well,  I  declare  —  Adam  Spear  !"  she  greeted 
him,  laying  down  her  paper,  taking  off  her 
"specs,"  and  putting  on  a  casualness  which 
would  have  deceived  the  astutest  man. 

"Howdy,  Liza,"  Adam  answered  awkwardly. 

"Evenin',  Mr.  Ferris,"  said  Liza,  looking  past 
Adam  as  if  he  were  the  merest  incident  and  mo- 
mentary interest  in  him  had  ceased.  "Won't 
ye  both  set?"  she  asked  formally.  Adam 
took  the  farthest  chair. 


JUST  FOLKS  89 

"I  was  jest,"  observed  Liza,  taking  up  the 
paper  she  had  laid  down,  "a-readin'  'bout  some 
doin's  they  bin  havin'  to  Gettysburg.  You  was 
in  the  war,  wasn't  you,  Adam  ?  Was  you  to 
Gettysburg?" 

Adam  gasped.  "Why,  sure  I  was  !"  he  said 
presently,  when  he  could  ejaculate,  "an'  got 
wownded  in  the  leg  —  an'  you  made  me  some 
night-shirts,  soon's  you  heard  I  was  in  the  hors- 
pital." 

"Why,  so  I  did,"  said  Liza,  as  if  with  an  effort 
of  memory,  "though  we  was  on  diffrunt  sides." 

"Well,  the  war's  over  now,"  observed  Adam, 
cheerfully,  "  an'  I  guess  you  wa'n't  never  enough 
of  a  rebel  to  hurt  nothin'." 

"I  b'long  to  the  Daughters  o'  the  Bonny  Blue 
Flag  !"  declared  Liza,  defiantly. 

"An'  I  b'long  to  the  G.A.R.,"  said  Adam, 
handling  his  coat  lapel  where  he  wore  the  bronze 
button  of  the  Union's  defenders;  "but  law  !  if 
we  was  able  to  fergit  our  diffrunces  in  '65,  seems 
like  we  might  make  out  to  put  up  with  'em  in 
this  year  o'  grace  !" 

"Princ'ples,"  remarked  Liza,  severely,  "ain't 
strong  in  the  young  as  they  be  when  you've 
l'arned  how  much  they  stan'  fer." 

Ferris  and  Beth  looked  at  each  other  a  little 
apprehensively.  Liza's  tone  was  so  sharp  that, 
for  a  moment,  they  could  hardly  realize  she  was 
only  fabricating  this  barrier  in  the  course  of  true 


9o  JUST  FOLKS 

love,  to  "make  things  interestin',"  as  she  would 
have  said. 

"How  Cupid  does  love  hurdles"  Ferris  re- 
marked thoughtfully  to  Beth  when  he  had  a 
chance  to  talk  it  over  with  her.  "  If  he  can't 
find  a  ready-made  Capulet-Montague  feud,  he'll 
send  a  poor  old  doddeky  pair  of  victims  like  this 
harking  back  to  the  Civil  War  for  a  difference  — 
so  they  can  have  the  joy  of  bridging  it !" 

"I  hear,"  said  Mary  Casey,  "  you've  a  weddin' 
comin'  off  at  your  house." 

"We  have,"  answered  Beth;  "isn't  it  inter- 
esting ?" 

Mary  looked  dubious.  "Well,  I  dunno," 
she  said.  "  Seems  t'  me  if  a  woman  have  man- 
aged t'  git  along  widout  a  man  to  her  time  o' 
life,  she  might  make  out  alone  to  the  ind.  Min  is 
a  tur'ble  lot  o'  trouble  t'  break  in  —  an'  I  don'  see 
but  what  her  ole  fella's  like  to  die  before  she  gits 
him  so's  she  kin  stan'  his  ways  —  leavin'  her  wid 
all  her  trouble  fer  nothin'.  Beats  all  —  what  a 
woman'll  undertake  ! " 

Mary  had  come  over  to  the  Juvenile  Court  to 
wait  for  Beth  and  "walk  a  piece"  with  her. 
She  had  something  to  say  that  she  didn't  care 
to  say  before  her  children  —  who  were  always 
under  foot  when  Beth  was  there  —  nor  yet 
before  Liza  Allen  —  who  was  always  "mixin'  in" 


JUST  FOLKS  91 

when  Mary  went  to  her  house  to  see  Beth.  So 
they  had  to  have  recourse  to  the  streets  —  just  as 
the  people  of  Maxwell  and  Henry  Streets  must 
nearly  always  do  when  they  wish  privacy. 

"Sure,"  Mary  hastened  to  explain,  after  her 
seemingly  pessimistic  remark  about  "min"  and 
marriage,  "I  belave  'tis  in  the  nature  of  ivry 
woman  t'  want  a  man  t'  try  her  hand  on.  All  of 
us  belaves  oursilves  born  min-tamers  —  an'  none 
of  us  iver  lose  the  notion,  though  some  of  us 
kapes  tryin'  diffrunt  min,  lookin'  fer  success 
wid  wan  out  o'  the  lot,  an'  some  kapes  tryin'  the 
same  man  over  an'  over  —  like  me.  But  I  s'pose 
it  ain't  in  the  nature  of  anny  woman  t'  be  willin' 
t'  die  widout  seein'  what  she  kin  do  t'  rayduce 
wan  man  to  a  state  of  daycincy." 

This  seemed  to  bring  Mary  in  due  course  to 
the  object  of  her  visit.  "  'Tis  about  Ang'la  Ann," 
she  said  —  and  turned  to  Beth,  who  was  begin- 
ning to  know  Mary  well  enough  not  to  be  sur- 
prised at  the  quickness  with  which  the  glint  of 
shrewd  humor  had  died  out  of  her  face  and  been 
succeeded  by  a  look  of  deep  anxiousness. 

"What  about  her?" 

"Well  —  she  've  got  a  rid  skirt  — " 

"A  red  skirt?" 

"  She  've  bin  crazy  fer  wan  —  mebbe  ye  didn' 
know  —  an'  I  couldn'  give  'er  no  money  t'  git 
wan,  'count  of  her  pa  not  workin'.  An'  she 
was  tur'ble  down-hearted  'bout  it.     Night  before 


92  JUST  FOLKS 

last,  she'd  a  bundle  wid  'er  whin  she  come  home, 
an'  tried  t'  snake  it  in  widout  me  seein'  it. 
' What's  that  ?'  I  sez.  An',  'Oh,  nothin' !'  she 
sez.  I  didn't  make  no  effort  t'  urge  'er,  but 
yistiddy,  whin  she  was  gon'  t'  work,  I  looked  an' 
foun'  it  under  her  mattrass  —  an'  it  was  a  new 
rid  skirt.  'Wheer  did  ye  git  that  ?'  I  asked  'er, 
last  avenin'  —  an'  first  she  wouldn'  tell  me. 
Then  she  said  one  o'  the  fellas  t'  wheer  she  work 
give  it  to  her  —  an'  she  kind  o'  let  out  that  he's 
wan  that  Stan's  up  to  her  consid'rable." 

Mary  paused  and  looked  at  Beth,  as  if  to  see 
how  shocked  she  was.  But  Beth,  who  was 
thinking  hard,  said  nothing  for  a  moment,  and 
Mary  plunged  on. 

"Ain't  it  tur'ble  ?"  she  cried.  "I  toP  Ang'la 
she  must  take  it  right  back  —  but  she  wouldn'. 
'He's  the  only  wan  that  keer  enough  about  me 
to  keer  if  I'm  shabby  er  daycint !'  she  sez.  'I 
can't  niver  go  no  place  ner  have  no  fun,'  she  sez, 
'because  I  ain't  got  nothin'  fit  t'  wear.  He's 
sorry  for  me  —  an'  he  give  me  the  skirt  —  an' 
I  ain't  goin'  t'  take  it  back,  I  don'  keer  what  you 
say  ! '  I  couldn'  do  nothin'  wid  her,  Miss  Tully  — 
an'  I'm  that  onaisy  'bout  her  I'm  most  out  o' 
me  min'." 

"I  know,"  said  Beth,  nodding  her  head  briskly. 
"She  can't  have  it,  of  course.  I'll  see  if  I  can't 
make  her  understand." 

"Will    ye,    now?"     cried   Mary,   gratefully. 


JUST  FOLKS  93 

"  Poor  little  t'ing  !  She  've  no  idare  how  I  do  hate 
to  have  her  give  it  up  —  ner  what  harm  he  may- 
mane  in  givin'  it.  Ain't  it  awful,  Miss  Tully, 
how  the  young  has  to  be  always  unbelavein'  of 
the  love  that  do  keer  most  fer  theer  good,  an' 
riddy  t'  belave  in  anny  wan  that'll  spake  fer 
theer  plisure  ?" 

That  night  Beth  went  over  to  see  Angela  Ann 
and  to  take  her  out  for  a  walk.  Angela  Ann  was 
sixteen,  and  pretty.  She  was  slight  and  full  of 
grace.  Her  hands  and  feet  were  small  and 
shapely.  Her  big  Irish-blue  eyes  were  fringed 
with  curling  lashes  of  extraordinary  length. 
Her  skin  was  milk-white  (when  it  was  clean)  and 
satin-soft ;  all  the  Casey  children  had  exquisite 
skin.  And  she  had  dimples  in  her  cheeks,  like 
her  pa's.  Her  hair  was  thick  and  of  a  rich  chest- 
nut color,  and  she  took  pretty  good  care  of  it, 
considering  her  pitifully  limited  facilities.  Angela 
Ann  liked  to  "be  nice";  she  liked  to  go  to  the 
baths  on  Fourteenth  Street,  and  she  did,  when 
she  could  spare  the  nickel.  She  never  looked 
particularly  pretty,  because  she  was  ungroomed 
and  grotesquely  dressed ;  but  when  you  got  to 
know  her,  you  were  often  conscious,  as  you  looked 
at  her,  of  figuring  what  a  remarkably  pretty 
girl  she  would  be  with  half  a  chance.  She  had 
figured  it,  too,  of  course. 

But  poor  Angela  had  gone  to  work  when  she 
was  twelve,  as  cash-girl.     After  a  brief  appren- 


94  JUST  FOLKS 

ticeship  at  that,  she  became  a  bundle  wrapper. 
When  she  was  fourteen,  she  was  pasting  labels 
on  a  patent  medicine.  Soon  thereafter  she  had 
transferred  her  operations  to  a  cheap  mail  order 
concern  that  advertised  gold  rings  for  thirty- 
nine  cents.  Presently  she  was  back  again  at 
bundle  wrapping.  She  had  no  ability,  no  pros- 
pects —  she  drifted  from  job  to  job,  squeezing  in, 
unchallenged,  at  rush  seasons  and  being  re- 
morselessly let  off  the  moment  it  became  pos- 
sible to  weed  the  unfit  from  the  fit.  And  all 
this  time  she  brought  her  pay  envelopes  home 
untouched,  receiving  back  from  her  mother  what 
could  be  spared  —  for  carfare  in  bad  weather ; 
for  an  occasional  five  cents  to  add  a  bakery  deli- 
cacy to  the  bread  and  meat  she  carried  from  home 
for  lunch  ;  and  for  a  pair  of  cheap  shoes  when  the 
ragged  old  ones  promised  a  spell  of  sickness  un- 
less they  were  replaced.  If  she  achieved  a  ribbon 
for  her  hair  or  her  neck,  a  ten-cent  string  of  blue 
beads  when  all  the  girls  were  wearing  them,  or  a 
bunch  of  roses  for  the  hat  she  bought  out  of  a 
sidewalk  bin  on  Halsted  Street,  it  was  at  the 
price  of  carfare  and  lunch  money.  She  had 
never  bought  a  dress,  nor  even  a  shirt-waist ;  her 
clothing  always  came  through  some  chance 
charity  and  seldom  or  never  bore  any  relation  to 
her  desires.  Did  she  long  for  a  tan  jacket  ? 
The  coat  that  eventually  came  her  way  was  sure 
to  be  a  black  ulster.     Did  she  crave  a  red  skirt  ? 


JUST  FOLKS  95 

The  only  skirt  that  her  more  prosperous  aunt 
Maggie  could  afford  to  give  away  was  bound  to 
be  green  or  purple.  Did  she  dream  of  a  "peeka- 
boo" waist  ?  Alas  !  peekaboos  never  seemed  to 
get  into  the  cast-off  bundles,  and  she  had  to 
summon  what  grace  she  could  to  wear  a  gray 
flannel  or  a  brown  madras,  with  long  sleeves. 
Ordinarily,  Angela  Ann  bore  these  outrageous 
fortunes  with  a  heroism  no  less  great  than  that 
which  has  got  some  folks  a  statue  in  the  public 
parks.  But  the  most  heroic  undoubtedly  have 
"off  times,"  seasons  of  strong  distaste  for  the 
hero's  job ;  and  Angela  Ann,  it  seemed,  had 
come  to  one  of  these  intervals  of  revolt.  Beth 
wondered,  as  she  went  along  teeming,  sweltering 
Henry  Street  toward  the  flight  of  steep,  creaking 
steps  leading  down  to  the  Caseys'  basement,  how 
she  could  summon  stern  morality  enough  to  lec- 
ture Angela  on  the  hideousness  of  taking  a  red 
skirt  "off'n  a  fella"  —  yet  it  must  be  done,  of 
course  !     And  she  must  do  it. 

They  went  over  to  Halsted  Street  —  she  and 
Angela  —  and  walked  slowly  up  to  Madison  on 
the  east  side  of  the  street  where,  for  some  occult 
reason,  the  five-cent  theatre  does  not  flourish. 
From  this  comparatively  sedate  side,  they  looked 
over  to  the  gaudy  other  side  where  penny  arcades 
and  saloons  with  free  vaudeville,  and  nickelo- 
deons, and  gaudy  Greek  candy  parlors,  vie  with 
the  groggeries  and  the  pawnshops  in  number. 


96  JUST  FOLKS 

As  they  walked,  Angela  looked  across,  and  Beth 
talked  —  trying  to  point  out  the  short  and  easy 
step  from  a  good  time  to  a  very,  very  bad 
time,  indeed. 

Angela  listened  for  a  while,  then  began  to  pour 
out  her  grievances.  It  was  all  very  well  to  talk, 
but  what  was  a  girl  to  do  ?  She  couldn't  "  have 
nobody  to  home  —  to  set  in  the  kitchen  wid  the 
whole  fam'ly.  An'  they  [meaning  her  pa  and 
ma]  won'  l'ave  me  go  no  place  —  an'  if  they 
would,  I  couldn'  go,  not  haven'  a  daycint  rag  to 
wear.  Pa's  awful  pertickler  —  about  other  folks. 
He  said  he  didn'  care  if  lots  o'  girls  I  know  do  go 
to  dance  halls  —  theer  no  place  fer  a  daughter  o' 
his,  though  they  might  do  fer  the  girls  of  thim 
immygrints  wid  no  understandin'  o'  what's 
what.  But  min  like  Pa  that's  seen  the  world, 
theer  too  wise  t'  l'ave  theer  girls  go  by  no 
dances."  He  even  frowned  on  her  going  —  as 
she  sometimes  did,  with  her  Aunt  Maggie  and 
Uncle  Tim  "of  a  Sat'dy  night"  —  to  the  By-Joe 
(Bijou)  to  see  "Nellie  the  Beautiful  Cloak- 
Model,"  or  "On  the  Stroke  of  Twelve,"  or  "The 
White  Queen  of  Chinatown."  But  Mary  had 
overruled  him  there,  it  seemed,  reassured  by 
Angela's  answer  to  her  anxious  query  if  the  By- 
Joe  was  a  "rayspictable"  place:  "Why,  sure, 
Ma,  it's  a  rayspictable  place!"  Angela  had 
hastened  to  exclaim ;  "  'tis  a  gran'  theayter,  an' 
swell  people  goes  there.     Why,  it  say  on  the  wall, 


JUST  FOLKS  97 

'No  shpittin'  ner  shwearin'  allowed'!"  And, 
on  the  same  conviction  that  "girls  do  be  after 
nadein'  a  little  plisure  now  an'  thin  —  ye  can't 
kape  thim  in  yer  pocket,"  Mary  had  secretly 
raised  Pa's  ban  against  amusement  parks  —  on 
Angela's  solemn  promise  "not  to  touch  no  beer, 
ner  to  take  up  wid  anny  man  yer  not  properly 
introjooced  to,"  and,  above  all,  to  "kape  no 
comp'ny  wid  thim  that  wint  to  Chinee  places." 

But  Angela  couldn't  afford  to  go  to  amusement 
parks  on  her  own  treat,  and  it  was  hard  to  "get 
ast  by  a  fella  "  when  you  had  no  place  to  entertain 
a  fellow  and  no  clothes,  and  when  everybody 
was  "  always  throwin'  it  into  you  not  to  go  wid  no 
fella  ner  to  take  nothin'  off'n  thim."  There  was 
Gertie  O'Malley  now  —  the  belle  of  Henry 
Street.  Gertie's  pa  was  a  policeman,  and  Gertie 
had  a  "parlie"  and  a  piano  and  a  silk  dress  and  a 
whole  court  of  Nineteenth  Ward  beaus,  attracted 
partly  by  Gertie's  loudly  assertive  charms  and 
partly  by  the  expediency  of  standing  in  with 
Gertie's  pa.  Angela  felt  very  wroth  with  her  sire. 
Not  every  man,  she  knew,  can  be  a  policeman ; 
but  any  man  as  smart  as  Pa  Casey  had  a  right 
to  be  a  good  deal  "more  of  a  pervider  ner  what 
he  was  !" 

Beth  granted  all  this ;  she  sympathized ;  she 
inveighed  against  Pa  and  conditions  ;  she  cajoled ; 
she  painted  the  rewards  of  virtue  in  glowing  colors 
and  told   herself  that  though   she  believed   in 


98  JUST  FOLKS 

these  rewards,  it  was  asking  too  much  of  Angela  to 
believe  in  them  too.  For  in  Angela's  sphere  of 
life  —  as  in  some  others  —  it  takes  a  pentrating 
spiritual  vision  indeed  to  see  beyond  the  ap- 
parent success  of  vice  and  the  apparent  failure  of 
integrity. 

"I  know,  Angela,"  Beth  said,  "I  know  it's  hard, 
but  what  can  you  do  ?  For  you  must  be  good 
—  mustn't  you  ?     You  must  be  good  !" 

"Yes'm,  I  s'pose  so,"  Angela  admitted. 

"Well,  then,  you  can't  do  it  unless  you're 
careful  —  always  on  the  lookout,  as  I  tell  you. 
For  I  don't  suppose  any  girl  ever  went  wrong 
because  she  decided  to  go  to  the  devil ;  she  gets 
there  before  she  realizes  —  that's  it !  No  supper 
with  the  foreman  when  you  work  late,  remember ; 
foremen  don't  spend  supper  money  on  girls  out 
of  pure  benevolence.  No  theatre  tickets  from 
the  boss  ;  no  candy  —  no  red  skirts  —  no  —  no 
anything!"  It  was  an  ordeal  to  honest  little 
Beth  —  demanding  this  heroically  difficult  virtue 
of  a  starveling  like  Angela  Ann  ;  but  she  knew 
she  must  persevere  in  it. 

"You  take  back  the  red  skirt,  Angela,"  she 
said,  finally,  "and  tell  the  young  man  your  ma 
never  lets  you  take  presents.  And  I'll  get  you  a 
nicer  one,  somehow  —  and  maybe  a  nice  shirt- 
waist, too." 

Thus  bribed,  Angela  Ann  took  back  the  skirt. 
But  Beth  was  dubious  if  the  victory  were  one 


JUST  FOLKS  99 

of  morals  or  of  "  a  shirt-waist  to  boot."  When  she 
came  to  think  of  it,  though,  she  could  not  see 
that  many  people's  morals  can  be  easily  divorced 
from  expediency. 

The  return  of  the  red  skirt  precipitated  a  small 
tragedy.  "He"  told  Angela  she  was  a  fool, 
and  he  passed  the  joke  around  the  shop,  so 
that  Angela  went  to  Beth  in  a  passion  of  tears, 
declaring  she  would  never  go  back  there  again ; 
that  she  loved  him  dearly  and  was  sure  she 
would  never  meet  another  fellow  half  so  nice; 
and  that  she  wished  she  "was  dead,  anyhow." 

Beth  promised  to  get  her  another  job  and 
wisely  refrained  from  urging  it  upon  her  that  "he" 
was  well  lost. 

"When  we  get  your  new  skirt  and  waist,  Mr. 
Ferris  and  I  will  take  you  out  to  Riverview,"  she 
promised,  "and  try  to  give  you  a  good  time." 

"Goin'  wid  another  girl  an'  her  beau,  ain't  the 
same's  going  wid  yer  own,"  sobbed  Angela. 

No,  it  wasn't;  Beth  knew.  "But  a  girl  like 
you  won't  be  long  without  a  beau,  Angela  dear. 
If  you  keep  sweet  and  good,  some  fine  young 
man'll  come  along  and  make  you  a  good  hus- 
band—" 

"Oh,"  wailed  Angela,  "that's  what  Ma's 
always  sayin'  —  an'  you  —  an'  it's  in  the  plays  an 
the  story-books  an'  the  Advice  to  the  Lovelorn ; 
but  it  ain't  so  !  The  girls  that's  free  an'  aisy 
wid  the   min   gits   the   most  beaus  —  an'  thim 


ioo  JUST  FOLKS 

that  tries  to  do  right  gits  laughed  at,  an'  called 
fools." 

Again  Beth  was  silenced,  unable  to  deny  the 
seeming  truth  of  this ;  unable  to  ask  Angela's 
childish  eyes  to  see  past  all  the  surface  injustice  of 
the  world's  way  of  apportionment,  to  the  real 
status  of  things,  where  it  becomes  apparent  that 
each  of  us  get,  somehow,  just  about  what  we 
have   earned. 

"I  don't  know  why  any  one  should  expect 
Angela  to  see  that  deep  —  to  have  a  hope  that 
her  experience  won't  justify,"  Beth  told  her- 
self passionately;  "but  oh!  she  must  be  made 
to  see  it,  in  some  way,  or  to  take  it  on  faith.  She 
must !     She  must  !" 

The  way  Beth  appealed  to  them  about  the 
red  skirt  and  the  peekaboo  waist  made  several 
persons  only  too  glad  to  help  out ;  and  the  way 
she  urged  the  vital  necessity  of  a  new  job,  and  an 
attractive  new  job  at  that,  made  one  of  her 
staunch  supporters  glad  to  give  it  to  her. 

"What  can  your  girl  Jo?"  the  staunch  sup- 
porter asked,  poising  his  pen  above  an  order  blank 
which,  signed  by  him,  would  commend  Angela 
to  the  foreman  of  his  factory  for  immediate 
employment. 

"Do?"  echoed  Beth,  excitedly.  "Do?  I 
don't  believe  she  can  do  anything !  But  she 
needs  the  job  /•" 

"You're  an  excellent  economist,  Miss  Tully," 


JUST  FOLKS  101 

said  the  staunch  supporter,  smiling,  as  he  handed 
her  the  order  for  Angela's  3#&'} i  :'  I'M     ' 

"I'm  a  better  economist  than  he  knows,  I 
guess,"  Beth  thought,  as  she  hurried  to  Henry 
Street  with  his  order.  "I  don't  say  it's  ideal 
economy  giving  Angela  a  job  not  because  she  can 
fill  it  but  because  she  needs  it  —  but  I  guess  it's 
at  least  as  good  economy  as  letting  her  go  where 
she  may  go  if  she  doesn't  get  it  —  and  prosecuting 
her  after  she  goes  —  and  prosecuting  others  be- 
cause of  what  she's  dragged  them  to  —  and  bury- 
ing her,  while  she's  yet  young,  in  the  Potter's 
Field  !  I  guess  the  difference  between  the  way 
Angela  does  the  job  and  the  way  some  other 
girl  might  have  done  it,  won't  be  as  great  as  the 
difference  it  might  make  to  Angela  if  she  didn't 
get  the  job  !" 

"  I  suppose  my  allotment  will  be  to  get  Angela 
a  new  beau!"  laughed  Ferris,  when  Beth  re- 
counted to  him  her  other  successes. 

"If  you  only  could!"  Beth  sighed.  "But  I 
suppose  that's  something  that,  in  America,  every 
girl  has  to  do  for  herself.  What  you  can  do, 
though,  is  to  take  Angela  and  me  out  to  River- 
view,  some  night  this  week,  and  help  me  give  her 
one  good  time." 

Ferris  smiled,  but  agreed.  Angela,  in  all  the 
splendor  of  her  new  red  skirt  and  her  peekaboo 
waist,  was  called  for  with  all  ceremony.  (Beth 
only  wished  she  knew  some  one  "with  an  auto- 


102  JUST  FOLKS 

mobile  and "  a  sense  of  humor  —  if  they  ever 
go  together  !"--  v/bc  might  have  loved  the 
human  comedy  well  enough  to  take  a  hand  in  it 
for  this  evening.  But  she  didn't.)  And  even 
Pa-the-particular  speeded  their  going  and  wished 
them,  handsomely,  a  "gran'  time." 

But  alas  !  and  alas  !  for  the  best-laid  plans. 
While  they  stood  —  Hart  Ferris  and  Beth  and 
Angela  Ann  —  watching  the  crowds  on  the  danc- 
ing floor,  Angela  gave  a  queer  little  cry,  half 
rage,  half  pain,  and  dashed  away  as  if  in  quest 
of  a  place  to  hide  among  the  trees. 

"Why,  Angela,  what's  the  matter  ?"  implored 
Beth  when  she  had  overtaken  the  girl. 

For  a  few  moments,  Angela  was  so  shaken  with 
sobs  that  she  could  not  reply.  Then:  "It's 
him!"  she  wailed;  "him  an'  Nellie  McGuire 
wid  the  rid  skirt  on!" 

Nellie  McGuire  worked  in  the  same  shop,  it 
seemed,  and  it  had  evidently  not  been  "agin  her 
princ'ples"  to  accept  a  red  skirt  "ofPn  a  fella," 
nor  against  her  pride  to  take  one  that  she  knew 
had  been  returned  by  another  girl. 

Hart  Ferris,  when  the  tragedy  was  explained 
to  him,  had  the  usual  masculine  perspicacity 
about  affairs  of  the  feminine  heart. 

"Maybe  it  wasn't  the  same  skirt,"  he  observed, 
consolingly. 

And  the  look  Angela  gave  him  was  so  withering 
that,  in  spite  of  herself,  Beth  laughed. 


JUST  FOLKS  103 

Ferris's  next  masculine  inspiration  was  whis- 
pered to  Beth.  "Let's  take  her  into  one  of  these 
funny  side-shows  and  divert  her,"  he  suggested. 

Beth  had  a  momentary  temptation  to  look 
withering  herself  —  but  she  overcame  it.  She 
was  growing  used  to  the  uncomprehendingness 
of  masculinity,  and  beginning  to  have  even  a  sort 
of  tenderness  for  it  in  her  masculine,  as  she 
would  have  had  for  any  other  hard-and-fast  limi- 
tation Nature  had  put  on  him. 

"Girls  in  Angela's  mood  donH  divert"  she 
said  softly ;  and  there  was  something  in  her  tone 
that  impressed  Ferris  that  she  knew. 

So  they  went  home,  a  subdued  little  party  — 
home  to  the  top  of  the  creaking  stairs  on  Henry 
Street,  where  Beth  and  Ferris  stood  for  a  minute 
after  Angela  had  disappeared  into  the  Stygian 
blackness  shrouding  the  bottom  of  the  flight. 

"It's  tragedy,  all  right,"  said  Beth,  soberly, 
when  she  and  Ferris  turned  away.  "She's 
young,  and  we  know  she'll  get  over  it  —  but  she 
doesn't  know  she  will,  and  it's  as  tragic  to  her  as 
if  it  were  the  end  of  everything." 

"Oh,  she  couldn't  care  so  very  much  for  the 
fellow  —  she  hardly  knew  him,"  Ferris  philoso- 
phized ;  "  and  she's  got  the  red  skirt." 

If  Ferris  could  have  seen  Beth's  face  in  the 
darkness  of  Henry  Street,  he  would  have  been 
sorely  puzzled  by  the  expression  on  it. 


VI 


Beth  had  little  leisure  and  almost  as  little  in- 
clination for  life  outside  the  Ghetto.  The  people 
around  her  were  so  absorbingly  interesting  that 
she  found  the  more  superficial  contact  with 
people  "across  the  border"  savorless  and  unsatis- 
fying. They  liked  to  hear  her  talk  about  her 
life  and  her  work  and  her  new  friends  —  those 
outsiders  —  but  she  couldn't  talk  to  them  as 
she  could  to  Hart  Ferris.  The  Casey  s,  the 
Rubovitzes,  Liza,  Adam,  Hannah  Wexsmith,  the 
Gooches  —  these  were  but  names  to  those  who 
listened ;  only  to  Hart  were  they  more  or  less 
familiar  personalities  that  could  be  discussed, 
not  merely  talked  about.  And  Beth's  mind  and 
heart  were  so  full  of  them  that  she  wanted  to  dis- 
cuss them  as  personalities,  not  just  to  tell  about 
them  to  persons  whose  chief  interest  was  in  their 
poverty,  and  whose  mental  attitude  seemed  to  be 
that  poverty  makes  of  human  creatures  a  world 
apart.  So  Hart  Ferris  was  daily  entrenching 
himself  deeper  and  deeper,  not  only  in  the  affec- 
tions of  little  Beth,  but  in  that  "thou  and  thou 
only"  place  in  her  life  and  heart  which  he  so 
earnestly  desired  to  fill.     It  was  such  a  busy  life, 

104 


JUST  FOLKS  105 

such  a  wide-reaching  heart,  that  it  wasn't  easy 
to  acquire  over  it  complete  sovereignty;  it 
wasn't  like  the  heart  of  a  girl  with  nothing  to 
think  of  but  love  and  her  lover.  But  Ferris  was 
beginning  to  see  how  much  more  glorious  the 
conquest  of  it  was.  For,  as  he  advanced  step  by 
step  into  Beth's  interests  (somehow,  she  seemed 
to  have  jumped  into  the  very  heart  of  his  interests 
all  at  once,  in  her  wonderful,  woman's  way)  he 
could  feel  the  solid  ground  of  comradeship 
beneath  his  feet.  He  was  making  himself  ten- 
derly necessary  to  her ;  day  by  day  he  was  enter- 
ing further  into  her  life's  ramifications ;  soon, 
he  hoped,  there  would  not  be  a  byway,  ever  so 
small,  of  her  ardent  interest,  which  he  had  not 
shared  with  her.  It  was  a  delicious  courtship, 
and  Ferris  felt  sorry  indeed  for  the  men  who  had 
nothing  to  court  in  a  girl  but  her  fancy  for  the 
way  they  looked  or  acted  or  earned  money. 

Beth  wasn't  thinking  much,  consciously,  about 
the  processes  of  her  love  affair.  Only  she  was 
finding  herself  more  and  more  eager  to  talk 
things  over  with  Hart,  more  and  more  confident 
of  the  new  understanding  that  would  come  to 
her  in  the  talking  over,  and  more  and  more 
satisfied  with  his  companionship  and  none  other. 

They  went  to  the  theatre  quite  frequently  — 
sometimes  to  a  down-town  theatre  to  see  a  good 
or  fairly  good  play  well  or  fairly  well  acted,  and 
sometimes  to  the  By- Joe  (Bijou)  or  the  Academy 


106  JUST  FOLKS 

or  other  West  Side  theatre  to  study  what  West 
Side  folks  like.  Ferris  was  able,  through  his  news- 
paper connection,  to  get  passes,  except  in  the 
cases  of  plays  doing  excellent  business,  and  they 
were  able  to  afford  themselves  a  great  deal  of 
pleasure  this  way.  On  hot  nights,  Beth  liked 
to  go  to  the  amusement  parks,  partly  for  what  she 
saw  that  helped  her  to  understand  phases  of  her 
work,  and  partly  for  the  sheer  delight  she  had 
in  the  crowds,  the  lights,  the  music,  the  dancing, 
the  diversions.  The  child-heart  in  her  was  inex- 
tinguishable, and  it  kept  her  soul  untainted 
by  conditions  which  some  call  the  sordid  and  the 
seamy  conditions  of  life.  Beth  loved  to  dance,  and 
the  smooth,  shining  floors  of  the  dancing  pavilions 
never  failed  to  tempt  her,  no  matter  how  many 
weary  miles  her  small  feet  had  trudged  in  the 
day's  work.  A  dance  was  a  mental  transforma- 
tion to  her.  The  puckers  came  out  of  her 
mind,  she  said,  and  left  nothing  but  the  joy  of 
rhythmical  motion.  After  a  good  dance  with 
Hart,  she  could  feel  herself  freed  of  fret,  refreshed, 
ready  to  begin  all  over  again.  And  he  loved 
the  flushed  cheeks  and  bright  eyes  of  her,  the 
happy,  bubbling,  care-free  laugh,  and  the  fairy- 
light  motion  of  the  slender  little  thing  in  his 
arms.  Those  were  happy  midsummer  nights ; 
no  two  young  lovers  in  the  city  had  happier. 
And  coming  home,  under  the  friendly  stars,  was 
sweeter  still.     Ferris  was  teaching  Beth  to  know 


JUST  FOLKS  107 

the  stars,  and  she  was  getting  much  from  them 
that  helped  her  in  the  Ghetto. 

So  Beth  was  very  happy,  and  her  happiness 
was  one  of  the  things  that  made  her  presence 
precious  in  the  Nineteenth  Ward. 

It  was  not  so  hard  for  her  to  realize  that  there 
might  be  an  important  work  for  her  to  do  beyond 
the  Ghetto  as  it  was  for  her  to  want  to  do  it. 
She  was  familiar  with  the  old,  old  discussion  of 
what  Hull  House  has  accomplished,  and  with  its 
time-honored  ending:  "Well,  aside  from  what 
Hull  House  has  done  for  the  Nineteenth  Ward, 
just  see  what  it  has  done  for  the  Lake  Shore 
Drive  !"  She  knew  the  principle  of  great  Jane 
Addams  whom  little  Beth  revered  so  deeply,  the 
thing  that  had  brought  her  to  what  people  are 
pleased  to  call  "the  slums";  and  it  was  not, 
primarily,  so  much  to  teach  as  to  learn.  If  Jane 
Addams  had  been  able  to  communicate  the  beauty 
of  her  spirit  to  more  of  her  disciples,  there  could 
never  have  been  any  discussion  of  what  Hull 
House  was  worth  to  the  Nineteenth  Ward. 
But  if  she  had  been  able  so  to  do,  she  would  not 
have  been  repeating  the  history  of  great  spirits 
who  moved  greatly  toward  the  world's  uplift. 
If  the  doubt  of  her  success  had  not  assailed  her 
from  the  outside  and  if,  much  more,  it  had  not  also 
assailed  her  from  within,  she  would  have  been 
only  imperfectly  akin  to  others  of  her  great  kind. 
It  was  what  she  realized  of  some  of  Hull  House's 


108  JUST  FOLKS 

apparent  failures,  what  she  felt,  intuitively, 
that  Miss  Addams  must  feel,  that  awoke  Beth, 
finally,  to  what  she  called  "  the  claims  of  the 
Lake  Shore  Drive."  For  if  one  remembered 
why  Miss  Addams  had  come  to  South  Halsted 
Street,  one  could  never  question  her  success. 
She  had  come  to  learn  and  to  attract  others 
to  learn.  And  the  more  Beth  came  to  know  of  the 
Nineteenth  Ward,  the  more  reason  she  had  to 
doubt  if  any  possible  benefit  to  the  Nineteenth 
Ward  could  be  so  great  as  the  benefit  of  acquaint- 
ance with  the  Nineteenth  Ward  to  dwellers  on 
the  Lake  Shore  Drive. 

That  was  how  she  came,  finally,  to  fear  that 
she  was  selfish  about  her  new  interests  ;  that  she 
ought,  no  doubt,  to  share  her  wealth  with  the 
"poor  rich."  Of  actually  rich  persons  she  knew 
none  at  all ;  but  of  those  rich  in  leisure  and  poor 
in  interest  she  knew  as  many  as  most  of  us  are 
obliged  to  know.  And  some  of  these  persons 
envied  her  (or  thought  they  did  !)  her  interest 
in  the  Ghetto.  They  "wanted  to  help"  (of 
course  they'd  put  it  that  way !  Beth  thought 
impatiently)  but  "didn't  know  anybody  to  do 
anything  for."  The  only  help  they  knew  how  to 
give  was  material,  but  Beth  often  needed  that. 
She  soon  found,  however,  that  she  had  to  take 
these  would-be  Samaritans  on  probation  as  she 
took  the  delinquent  children  of  the  Juvenile 
Court;    to   be    exceedingly    cautious    how    she 


JUST  FOLKS  109 

allowed  these  sudden  enthusiasts  to  come  into 
personal  relations  with  the  objects  of  their  chari- 
table zest.  They  did  such  queer  things.  And  the 
Ghettoites,  rightly,  resented  them. 

Beth  had  heard  the  Samaritans'  stories  about 
the  poor  who  spent  on  tintypes  and  phonographs 
the  money  given  them  for  food  and  overdue  rent. 
But  she  knew,  too,  of  the  charity  organizations 
that  solicited  "pound"  donations  and  distributed 
the  packages  undiscriminatingly  along  any  mean- 
looking  street  —  Mary  Casey,  at  a  time  of  partic- 
ular hungriness  and  coldness,  having  been  pre- 
sented, by  a  palpitating  young  person  at  the  back 
door,  with  a  pound  of  starch. 

They  usually  gave  the  wrong  thing  —  those 
precious  enthusiasts-of-a-moment  —  and  they 
usually  gave  it  in  the  wrong  way.  It  was  a  great 
deal  easier  to  keep  the  two  worlds  apart  and  do 
"the  go-betweening"  herself.  But  that  wasn't 
helping  the  world  that  was  probably  in  most  need 
of  help. 

One  way  these  Samaritans  crowded  upon  her 
was  through  Ferris.  Following  humbly  in  the 
beautiful  example  of  Jacob  Riis  when  that 
splendid  spirit  was  doing  not  the  least  of  his 
service  to  humanity  through  his  department  of 
police  news  on  the  New  York  Sun,  Ferris  was 
rapidly  making  a  local  name  for  himself  by  his 
written  accounts  of  what  he  learned  from  Beth. 
And  as  readers  began  to  know  that  these  were 


no  JUST  FOLKS 

"really  true,"  there  came  to  be  a  clamoring  of 
Samaritans  with  softened  hearts  and  apparently, 
as  Ferris  said,  with  softened  brains  when  it  came 
to  having  a  definite,  practical,  humanly-loving 
idea  about  helping  a  brother  in  distress. 

Yet  they  seemed  so  genuinely  anxious  to  help, 
so  sincere  in  their  declarations  that  it  was  doing 
them  a  great  kindness  to  let  them  know  where 
they  could  give,  that  Beth  often  felt  severe  com- 
punctions at  putting  their  generosity  on  such 
stern  probation.  But  if  she  didn't,  she  was  nearly 
always  sorry.  For  the  Samaritans,  intoxicated  by 
the  unaccustomed  wine  of  a  little  gratitude  from 
fellow-creatures  they  had  helped,  usually  pro- 
ceeded at  once  to  demoralize  those  fellow- 
creatures  in  an  insatiate  desire  to  feel  more  of 
their  gratitude,  and  more,  and  more,  and  more. 
Then,  when  they  had  used  every  time-honored 
method  of  blunting  appreciation  and  deadening 
self-respect  and  taking  the  keen  edge  off  desire  — 
and  had  succeeded  in  their  efforts  —  they  always 
became  particularly  bitter  iconoclasts  and  par- 
ticularly loud  promulgators  of  the  doctrine  that 
"the  poor  are  poor  because  that's  all  they  deserve 
to  be." 

So  Beth  had  to  be  careful.  Few  persons  under- 
stood the  poor.  Every  one  seemed  to  think  that 
poverty  in  some  mysterious  way  alters  our  com- 
mon human  nature,  instead  of  intensifying  it  as  it 
really  does.     Every  one  wanted  to  have  an  over- 


JUST  FOLKS  in 

flowing,  maudlin  pity  for  the  poor;  every  one 
wanted  to  "show  them  how  to  do";  every  one 
felt  superior  to  them ;  no  one  ever  stood  in  awe 
of  their  patience,  their  faith,  their  fortitude. 

But  Beth  herself  was  learning  deeply  of  the 
poor,  and  one  thing  they  taught  her  was  often 
manifest:  she  never  "gave  up,"  any  more.  In 
any  problem  involving  human  nature,  she  was 
always  ready  to  "try  again."  So  she  was  grow- 
ing patient  with  her  Samaritan  probationers  as 
she  had  learned  to  be  with  her  delinquent  chil- 
dren ;  for  she  could  see  that  the  Samaritans 
needed  her  patience  just  as  much  —  sometimes 
a  good  deal  more.  She  didn't  mind  for  herself 
the  mistakes  the  Samaritans  made,  but  she 
minded  them  exceedingly  for  the  victims. 

"I  wonder,"  she  mused  one  night  in  talking  to 
Ferris,  "if  God  means  poor  people  to  bear  so 
much  —  the  brunt  of  poverty  and  the  burden  of 
being  practice-ground  for  the  awkward  Samari- 
tanism  of  the  rich  ?" 

Ferris  never  felt  half  as  confident  of  God's 
probable  purposes  as  Beth  herself,  so  he  did  not 
venture  to  guess. 

It  was  thus  matters  stood  when  Ferris  wrote  for 
his  paper  a  little  story  of  Angela  Ann  and  the  red 
skirt. 

One  of  the  letters  that  came  to  him  (all  of 
which  he  duly,  as  was  his  wont,  turned  over  to 
Beth)  was  from  a  woman  who  said  quite  frankly 


ii2  JUST  FOLKS 

that  she  was  suffering  from  melancholia  and 
that  some  one  had  advised,  for  her  cure,  an  in- 
terest in  the  poor. 

"I  like  her  letter,"  said  Beth  when  she  had 
read  it,  "because  she  has  a  glimmering  of  the 
right  idea ;  she  feels  her  need  and  she  thinks  she 
may  get  something  over  here.  What  I'm  tired  of 
is  the  attitude  of  superiority  which  never  imagines 
there  can  be  anything  here  for  it  to  do  except 
to  give.  This  is  one  place  where  'them  that 
comes  to  git,  go  away  richer  than  them  that 
comes  to  give.'" 

So,  after  a  few  communications  by  mail,  Beth 
consented  to  go  and  see  the  woman  who  wanted 
help.  She  smiled  as  she  went,  enjoying  this  re- 
versal of  the  usual  order.  It  was  a  time-honored 
custom  to  call  on  the  suppliant  poor  to  see  if 
they  were  worthy  to  receive  charity.  It  was  a 
little  extraordinary  to  call  on  the  suppliant  rich 
to  see  if  they  were  worthy  to  give  charity.  The 
impertinence  and  injustice  of  presuming  to  decide 
in  either  case  made  Beth  hotly  ashamed,  many 
and  many  a  time.  She  was  ashamed  to- 
day. Who  was  she,  to  decide  on  a  woman's 
need  ?  But  when  she  thought  of  what  might 
happen  if  she  gave  the  Caseys'  address  to  a 
woman  without  trying  to  find  out  what  the 
woman's  ideas  and  puposes  were,  and  leaving 
the  results  to  God,  "  it  didn't  seem  fair  to 
God,"  she  said. 


JUST  FOLKS  113 

The  name  of  the  lady  who  wanted  to  get  help 
through  helping  was  Mrs.  Eleanor  Brent,  and  she 
lived  just  off  the  Lake  Shore  Drive  on  one  of  the 
handsome  residence  streets  that  run  west  from 
the  Drive.  The  house  in  which  she  lived  was 
elegant,  but  in  no  sense  palatial.  Beth  was  con- 
scious of  being  glad  "it  was  no  worse"  (by  which 
she  meant  no  grander)  and  then,  before  she  had 
time  to  think  much  further,  the  door  was  opened 
and  she  was  ushered  in. 

As  she  sat  waiting  in  the  drawing-room,  her 
misgivings  grew.  The  probable  effect  of  this  on 
Angela  Ann,  if  she  should  ever  be  brought  here, 
was  something  Beth  dared  not  contemplate.  And 
then,  the  sudden  transition  of  some  one  accus- 
tomed to  this  place,  to  "the  depths  of  Henry 
Street,"  was  an  idea  sufficiently  startling.  The 
house  was  one  of  those  that  impress  a  sensitive 
stranger  as  being  altars  of  worship  for  the  god  of 
Immaculate  Cleanliness  ;  everything  in  it  was  of 
such  exquisite  polish  and  purity  and  specklessness, 
that  Beth  felt  a  pang  of  pity  for  the  woman  who 
had  the  dirt  and  the  smells  and  the  disorder  of  the 
Ghetto  to  endure  before  she  could  come  into  the 
companionship  she  sought. 

At  this  point  in  her  reveries,  Mrs.  Brent  came ; 
Beth  was  startled  by  her  youth  and  by  her  beauty, 
but  startled  only  momentarily  because  she  had, 
somehow,  expected  something  quite  different. 
In  a  moment,  though,  she  had  forgotten  her  sur- 


ii4  JUST  FOLKS 

prise  in  her  interest.  Within  five  minutes  she 
and  Mrs.  Brent  were  confessing,  each  to  the  other, 
their  surprise. 

"I  thought  you'd  be  a  —  severe,  spinsterly, 
middle-aged  person,  all  angles  —  physically  and 
conversationally  —  and  that  you'd  wear  a  —  a 
kind  of  a  uniform;  be  something  like  a  police- 
man in  petticoats,"  laughed  Eleanor  Brent. 
Beth  had  made  her  laugh  almost  instantly  the 
first  greetings  were  over. 

"And  I,"  Beth  admitted,  "thought  you'd  be  — 
well,  I  don't  know  just  what  I  thought  you  would 
be  like.  But  I  didn't  think  you'd  be  like  you 
are!" 

Mrs.  Brent  led  Beth  on  to  tell  of  her  work,  and 
she  listened  with  an  eager  appreciation  that  made 
Beth  bring  out  all  her  best  for  this  new  friend. 
(There  was  no  doubt  that  they  were  to  be 
friends.) 

"You  are  —  please  let  me  be  quite  frank! 
—  you  are  the  most  wonderful  thing  that  has 
happened  to  me  in  a  long  time,"  said  Eleanor 
Brent,  tears  shining  in  her  eyes.  "And  because 
I  want  to  'play  fair,'  to  let  you  understand 
what  little  there  is  of  me  to  know,  as  well  as  to 
enjoy  knowing  you,  I'll  tell  you  why  I  —  why  I 
must  have  a  new  interest  in  my  life." 

She  was  an  only  child,  she  said,  and  had  been 
brought  up  with,  undoubtedly,  too  much  care. 
She  was  educated  abroad,  and    had  had  every- 


JUST  FOLKS  115 

thing  done  for  her  that  love  and  money  and 
cultivated  tastes  can  do  for  a  girl.  Much  was 
expected  of  her  and  for  her.  "Then  I  married," 
she  went  on,  "married  when  I  was  twenty-one. 
It  was  a  mistake." 

The  day,  in  late  August,  was  oppressively  hot. 
When  Beth  came  into  the  drawing-room,  the 
afternoon  sun  was  shining  brilliantly.  While 
Eleanor  Brent  talked,  a  gray  cloudiness  that 
might  mean  rain  overcast  the  sky.  It  came  sud- 
denly. One  moment  the  sunshine  reflected  daz- 
zlingly  from  the  polished  oaken  floors ;  the  next 
moment  the  corners  of  the  room  were  full  of 
shadows  and  the  open  windows  framed  vistas  of 
gray. 

"  It  was  like  that  with  me,"  said  Eleanor  Brent. 
"Just  as  quickly  as  that,  almost,  the  shining  was 
all  gone  out  of  my  life.  I  try  not  to  complain, 
to  make  others  wretched.  I  try  to  think  of  all 
my  mercies,  and  I'm  grateful  for  them.  But 
gratitude  isn't  an  equivalent  for  the  joy  of  living  ! 
I  want  the  shine  back  in  my  life.  I  want  to  ex- 
pect things  to  happen  —  lovely  fairy  things  that 
color  the  days  and  make  them  truly  different 
one  from  another.  I  must  get  out  of  this 
shadow  I've  been  living  in.  I  must  have  some- 
thing to  take  me  out  of  myself.  It  isn't  go- 
ing to  be  easy  for  me,  nor  for  any  one  who  is 
good  enough  to  help  me.  But  I  don't  care  how 
hard   it   is  for  me,  if  only  I  can  keep  up  the 


n6  JUST  FOLKS 

struggle.  I  mustn't  let  go ;  that's  all !  I 
mustn't!" 

"You  won't !"    said  little  Beth. 

The  next  day,  Eleanor  Brent  called  at  Maxwell 
Street.  But  before  that,  something  quite  won- 
derful had  happened. 


VII 


It  was  six  o'clock  when  Beth  got  down  town. 
She  had  dinner  with  Ferris,  in  a  modest  little 
restaurant,  and  told  him  the  story  of  her  after- 
noon. 

"I  never  saw  anything  lovelier  to  look  at," 
said  Beth  enthusiastically.  "She's  quite  tall 
and  exquisitely  slender  and  she  has  a  great  wealth 
of  that  coppery  red  hair,  and  blue,  blue  eyes,  and 
a  skin  like  strawberries  and  cream." 

"Rather  a  startling  person  for  Henry  Street," 
commented  Ferris,  sceptically. 

"She  £y,"  Beth  admitted.  "And  it  isn't  going 
to  be  easy  for  her  to  get  close  to  people.  Her 
sadness  is  a  kind  they  won't  understand.  And 
they'll  see  her  beauty  and  feel  her  culture  and 
suspect  her  'well-to-do-ness,'  and  she'll  seem  too 
favored  of  fortune  to  be  sympathetic  with  the 
poor  and  struggling.  I'd  give  'most  anything 
to  look  like  her  —  'most  anything  but  the  joy 
of  being  little,  insignificant  me,  so  unnoticeable 
that  I  might  have  the  fairy  cloak  of  invisibility  — 
I  seem  to  get  into  folkses'  lives  so  easily." 

"Fairies  are  never  large,"  Hart  reminded  her; 
"and  we  don't  call  them  insignificant  because 

117 


n8  JUST  FOLKS 

they're  small.  Personally,  I  think  it's  a  misfor- 
tune for  any  woman  to  be  over  five  feet  high." 
(Beth  was  just  five  feet.) 

"  Well,  anyway,"  said  Beth,  smiling  gratefully 
across  at  him,  "I'm  'sure  enough  puzzled'  to 
know  what  possible  point  of  common  interest 
there  can  be  between  Eleanor  Brent  and  Angela 
Ann  —  except  clothes,  and  that's  dangerous. 
She  was  so  moved  by  your  story  of  the  red  skirt ! 
She  wanted  to  give  Angela  Ann  some  clothes  of 
hers.  'Not  fancy  things,  of  course!'  she  told 
me,  as  if  establishing  her  common-sense  thereby, 
'but  a  nice  tailored  suit  and  some  pretty  shirt- 
waists and  a  good  hat.'  I  explained  to  her  why 
these  wouldn't  do  —  how  they'd  actually  brand 
poor  Angela  in  the  eyes  of  all  her  world,  because 
every  one  would  know  she  hadn't  earned  them  and 
no  one  would  believe  an  angel  from  the  Lake 
Shore  Drive  had  descended  into  Henry  Street 
with  them  in  a  tailor's  box.  Also,  I  tried  to  make 
clear  the  probable  effects  of  such  elegance  on 
Angela  Ann  in  the  desperate  struggle  she  must 
wage  to  keep  good.  'It's  hard,'  I  told  her, 
'terribly  hard,  to  stand  by  and  see  poor  little 
heroic  Angela  starving  for  pretty  things  and  you 
with  more  than  you  need.  You'd  love  to  share 
with  her,  but  you  can  do  it  only  with  infinite 
discretion ;  or  else  you'll  make  things  worse  for 
her  instead  of  better.  It's  like  bringing  up  a 
child :    selfish  parents  give  a  child  too  much ; 


JUST  FOLKS  119 

unselfish  parents  try  to  make  it  strong  to  acquire 
for  itself.  You  learn  a  lot  of  sympathy  with 
God, '  I  told  her,  'when  you  try  to  act  as  the  agent 
of  His  Providence  for  any  of  His  children.  You 
can  see,  in  a  feeble  way,  how  hard  things  must  be 
for  Him  who  holds  all  blessings,  and  life,  and 
death,  in  His  hands.'" 

Ferris  had  something  he  must  do  at  the  office 
that  evening,  so  after  they  had  finished  dining, 
he  put  Beth  on  a  Blue  Island  Avenue  car  and 
went  back  to  work. 

The  heat  was  all  but  intolerable,  and  the 
Ghetto  was  a  Gehenna.  Force  of  habit,  presum- 
ably, had  driven  the  gasping  thousands  of  Ghetto- 
ites  into  the  stifling  streets.  Certainly,  if  one 
could  have  measured  the  oven  heat  of  the  blistered 
sidewalks  with  the  oven  heat  of  the  tenement 
rooms,  nothing  to  the  advantage  of  the  former 
would  have  been  discoverable.  Still,  every  one 
had  made  what  effort  he  could  to  get  out  of  doors. 
Those  who  could  afford  the  money  and  muster  the 
energy  had  gone  to  the  parks  —  the  free  parks 
and  the  "pay"  parks,  at  the  latter  of  which  one 
may  have  many  hectic  delights  for  a  dime, 
especially  if  he  be  philosopher  enough  to  reflect 
that  the  best  of  the  side-shows  is  what  the  barker 
exhibits  for  a  lure.  (Alas,  though  !  how  much 
it  costs  most  of  us  to  feel  sure  of  that.)  Others 
had  gone  on  trolley  rides  —  in  Chicago  one  may 
ride  prodigious  distances  for  a  nickel  —  and  to  the 


120  JUST  FOLKS 

lake,  two  miles  away,  and  to  the  public  play- 
grounds. What  the  Ghetto  might  have  been  like 
if  these  more  affluent  and  more  energetic  thou- 
sands had  not  betaken  themselves  beyond  its 
confines,  one  dared  not  try  to  imagine.  For, 
as  it  was,  the  streets  were  so  thick  with  humanity 
that  it  seemed  a  breeze  could  not  have  blown 
through,  had  there  been  any  breeze  to  blow. 
The  hokey-pokey  man,  the  vendors  of  water- 
melon slices,  the  dispensers  of  penny  soda-water 
and  pink  pop,  did  thriving  business ;  and  beer 
disappeared  like  streams  in  a  thirsty  desert  — 
rivers  of  it  ran,  and  slaked  no  thirst. 

Every  door-step,  every  garbage  box,  every 
curbstone,  held  its  quota  of  exhausted  humanity. 
Men,  women,  and  children  slept  everywhere, 
in  the  most  hideously  uncomfortable  situations 
and  postures.  Nobody  wore  anything  that  could 
be  left  off — not  in  decency,  for  no  one  was  bother- 
ing about  decency,  but  in  safety  from  the  not- 
zealous  nor  much-in-evidence  police.  Flies 
swarmed  about  the  big  wooden  receptacles  for 
swill,  and  about  the  piles  of  decaying  refuse  which 
careless  householders  had  thrown  into  the  alleys. 
The  odors  of  spoiled  food  filled  the  heavy  air; 
for  few  Ghetto  folk  had  ice,  and  the  least  thing 
left  over  from  a  meal  spoiled  before  the  next  one. 

Beth  tried  not  to  think  enviously  of  the  room 
where  Eleanor  Brent  would  presently  be  sleeping. 
She  was  a  sturdy  little  soldier  —  was  Beth  — 


JUST  FOLKS  121 

and  having  undertaken  a  campaign  in  whose  issue 
she  believed,  she  tried  not  to  complain  if  it  were 
arduous  or  even  perilous. 

Hannah  Wexsmith  was  sitting  in  her  usual 
post  on  the  door-step,  close  under  the  sidewalk- 
display  of  Monahan,  and  with  her  was  Mamie 
Gooch,  holding  her  fretting  baby  and  calling  out, 
now  and  again,  to  her  little  Clarence,  who  was 
playing  in  the  street. 

Beth  stopped  to  talk  with  them  a  few  minutes, 
then  went  on  her  way  up  the  stairs.  On  her  own 
landing  she  paused ;  the  Slinskys'  kitchen  door 
was  open  and  Dinah  Slinsky  was  sitting  sewing, 
close  under  the  light  of  the  small  glass  lamp  on  the 
kitchen  table.  One  end  of  the  table,  which  was 
covered  with  brown  oil-cloth,  was  set  for  a  solitary 
meal.  Jacob  Slinsky,  in  his  brush  peddling, 
went  far  afield,  out  of  the  region  of  department 
stores  and  corner  groceries.  The  trolleys  took 
him,  at  low  fare,  into  the  humbler  suburbs,  and 
there  he  plied  from  door  to  door,  sometimes 
successfully  —  as  often,  not.  Frequently  it  was 
eight  or  nine  o'clock  when  he  climbed  the  stairs 
after  his  day's  journeying,  to  eat  a  supper  he  was 
too  tired  to  enjoy.  To-night  he  was  later  than 
usual,  and  Dinah  felt  worried  lest  he  had  been 
overcome  with  the  day's  cruel  heat.  It  was  a 
constant  sorrow  to  Dinah  that  her  father  had  to 
work  so  hard ;  for  Dinah  considered  him  an  old 
man  verging  on   decrepitude   and   helplessness, 


122  JUST  FOLKS 

though  he  was  only  forty.  Jacob  himself  felt 
old.  He  had  married  when  very  young,  worked 
slavishly  hard,  and  suffered  many  things.  The 
years  of  his  life  were  as  if  doubled  by  their 
exceeding  weight,  and  it  was  a  common  topic 
for  family  wonder  and  worry  what  was  to  become 
of  them  all  when  Jacob  should  be  too  old  to  work. 

Dinah  thought  of  this  now  as  she  peered  again 
and  again  at  the  clock  face  in  the  dim  corner. 
Suppose  her  father  had  been  overcome  by  the 
heat,  as  so  many  were,  each  broiling  day  !  What 
could  save  them  from  the  fate  they  dreaded 
almost  worse  than  death  —  the  necessity  of 
having  to  ask  charity  !  She  looked  at  her  stubby, 
deformed  hands,  and  the  rebellious  tears  rose  to 
her  eyes  and,  brimming  over,  dripped  on  to  the 
coarse  garment  she  was  fashioning.  Dinah  was  a 
dwarf  —  not  a  midget,  small,  but  shapely,  but 
a  squat  dwarf.  The  lack  of  some  necessary 
secretion  in  her  thyroid  glands  had  arrested  the 
growth  of  her  lower  limbs,  her  forearms,  her 
second  and  third  finger  joints.  She  stood  scarcely 
higher  than  the  kitchen  table,  and  her  broad 
little  hands  which  she  made  so  useful,  seemed 
hardly  more  articulated  than  stumps.  Dinah's 
affliction  made  her  people  exceeding  sensitive, 
and  in  all  Beth's  comings  and  goings,  hitherto, 
she  had  never  seen  into  the  home  where  the  Slin- 
skys  secluded  themselves  in  their  sorrow. 

To-night,  she  happened  by  the  door  just  as 


JUST  FOLKS  123 

Dinah's  stubby  hand  was  brushing  the  tears 
away.  Beth  hesitated  —  longing  to  comfort, 
afraid  to  venture  for  fear  of  being  misunderstood. 
She  could  readily  understand  what  the  Slinskys 
had  suffered,  and  how  supersensitive  they  had 
inevitably  grown. 

Dinah  looked  up  and  saw  her,  and  hastened  to 
explain  away  the  tears. 

"My  father  is  late,"  she  said,  in  her  peculiarly 
sweet  voice  and  careful  enunciation,  "and  I  am 
alone,  waiting  for  him.  When  he  does  not  come, 
I  think  how  if  he  should  be  prostrated  with  heat." 

"  I  know,"  said  Beth,  nodding  understandingly ; 
"  I've  kept  that  kind  of  anxious  watch  so  often 
myself.  My  dear  father  was  in  frail  health  for  a 
long  time  before  he  —  went  away  from  us  ;  and 
I  used  to  suffer  agonies  every  minute  he  was 
overdue." 

Dinah's  response  to  this  was  touching.  The 
sadness  of  her  situation  was  two-fold :  she  felt 
set  apart  by  her  affliction  and  she  felt  further  sep- 
arated from  those  around  her — even,  in  a  meas- 
ure, from  her  very  own  —  by  her  yearning  for 
things  far  beyond  the  interests  or  the  understand- 
ing of  the  Ghetto.  She  was  so  sure  that  no  one 
could  comprehend  how  she  felt  that  she  never 
tried  to  make  herself  understood.  But  the  un- 
mistakable breeding  in  Beth's  manner  appealed 
to  Dinah,  and  the  lack  of  patronage  reassured  her. 
Here  was  some  one  to  whom  she  could  talk ! 


I24  JUST  FOLKS 

She  asked  Beth  to  come  in,  and  Beth  accepted 
gladly. 

Dinah's  confidence  came  slowly,  at  first,  as  if 
feeling  its  way  with  great  caution  ;  then,  satisfied 
of  Beth's  worthiness  to  hear,  it  poured  out  like 
a  released  flood. 

Dinah  had  graduated  from  the  High  School  in 
June.  She  was  anxious  to  do  something  to  help 
her  father  —  to  ease  his  burden  —  and  to  provide 
for  her  own  future.  But  what  ?  Beth  suggested 
home  work  on  artificial  flowers  or  on  feathers. 
She  was  a  little  indignant  at  the  way  Dinah 
repulsed  these  suggestions.  What  did  Dinah 
want  to  do  ?  Dinah  wanted  to  be  an  artist. 
With  difficulty  Beth  repressed  a  gasp.  Dinah 
got  up  and  went  into  the  "front  room,"  returning 
with  two  framed  pictures  she  had  painted.  One 
was  of  an  ornate  Swiss  chalet  precariously  perched 
on  a  steep  mountain  side  above  a  lake.  The 
other  showed  three  pink  roses  in  a  bright  blue 
vase.  Beth  knew  little  about  art,  but  she  thought 
the  pictures  were  no  worse  than  the  average  High 
School  pupil  makes  in  the  drawing  class,  and 
rather  remarkable  for  Dinah  to  have  made  with 
those  stubby  fingers. 

Thus  launched  upon  the  theme  dearest  to  her 
heart,  Dinah's  confidences  grew  more  and  more 
intimate.  Beth  was  amazed  at  the  soaring  am- 
bition of  this  girl,  and  awe-struck  at  the  thought 
of  how   terrible   must  be   her   disappointment. 


JUST  FOLKS  125 

It  was  staggering  to  contemplate  —  the  future  of 
this  girl  with  her  affliction  and  her  pride  and  her 
towering  desires.  Beth  could  think  of  nothing  to 
say. 

"You  think  I  cannot  —  that  I  am  too  — 
short  ?"  said  Dinah. 

"  No  —  no  ! "  Beth  hastened  to  reply.  But  her 
manner  was  unconvincing.  "What  do  your  par- 
ents think  ?  "    she  asked. 

Dinah's  face  was  a  study,  and  she  did  not 
answer  for  several  moments.  Then  the  amazing 
story  came  out. 

"I  wonder  if  you  can  understand  ?"    she  said. 

Beth  looked  surprised,  and  Dinah  hastened  to 
explain.  Had  Beth  wondered  at  the  cause  of 
Dinah's  "shortness"  ?  Confused,  Beth  tried  to 
make  it  seem  that  she  had  not.  Dinah  told  what 
the  doctors  —  not  the  neighborhood  doctors,  but 
the  great  doctors  in  the  hospital  clinics  —  had 
said  the  matter  was ;  and  how  for  months  of 
futile  effort  she  had  followed  their  directions  and 
eaten  raw  sheep  thyroids  procured  from  the  stock- 
yards at  an  expense  great  to  the  Slinskys  and 
swallowed  with  a  heroism  that  taxed  Dinah  to  the 
utmost.  But  only  she  had  hoped  for  help  from 
them,  so  only  she  was  disappointed  when  they 
failed  to  aid.  Her  parents  —  !  Did  Beth  think 
Dinah  a  strange  name  for  a  Jewish  girl  ?  In 
school  the  teachers,  accustomed  to  a  world  of 
Roses  and  Lilies  and  Rachels  and  Sarahs  and  Idas 


126  JUST  FOLKS 

and  Rebeccas,  always  thought  Dinah  "a  nig- 
ger name."  Whereunto  Dinah  explained :  her 
father's  name  was  Jacob ;  and  in  the  Bible, 
was  not  Jacob's  daughter  named  Dinah  ?  But 
—  !  Did  Beth  know  what  Dinah  meant  ?  It 
meant  "Judgment."  Dinah  looked  at  Beth  to 
see  if  she  seemed  to  comprehend.     Judgment ! 

"And  your  parents   knew  —  ?"  asked  Beth. 

Dinah  nodded. 

"And  they  believe —  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  that  I  am  God's  judgment  on  them  for 
some  wrong." 

"Do  they  —  do  they  think  they  know  what  the 
wrong  is  ?" 

"No,  they  cannot  tell.  Something  in  their 
lives  has  displeased  Jehovah  and  —  I  am  — 
short." 

Beth's  eyes  blazed.  "  You  don't  believe  that, 
do  you  ?" 

Dinah's  face  changed  expression ;  the  rebellion 
faded  and  the  look  of  the  zealot,  ardent  for  immo- 
lation, came  instead.  "  '  The  fathers,'  "  she  said, 
"'have  eaten  a  sour  grape,  and  the  children's  teeth 
are  set  on  edge.'  " 

Beth  opened  her  mouth  to  make  quick  retort, 
then  closed  it  again,  on  sobering  second  thought. 

This  was  the  supreme  tragedy  of  Dinah  ;  not 
the  bonds  of  poverty  nor  the  bonds  of  her  afflic- 
tion, but  the  bonds  of  her  own  belief  held  her 
most  cruelly  fast  in  the  pit,  looking  yearningly 


JUST  FOLKS  127 

aloft   toward   the   heights   where   her    ambition 
soared. 

When  Eleanor  Brent  called,  next  day,  Beth 
was  so  full  of  the  story  of  Dinah  she  could  talk  of 
nothing  else. 

"  There's  the  girl  for  you  !"  she  cried.  "Your 
obvious  cultivation  would  frighten  Angela  Ann ; 
it  will  appease  the  pride  of  poor  Dinah.  And  oh  ! 
that  pride.  How  you'll  long  to  feed  it,  for  her 
present  comfort !  And  how  you'll  fear  to  feed  it 
for  her  future  peace  of  mind  !" 

Beth  left  Mrs.  Brent  to  talk  with  Liza  while  she 
went  to  knock  at  the  Slinskys'  door  and  inquire 
with  utmost  diplomacy  if  she  might  bring  a 
friend  to  call  —  a  friend  to  whom  she  had  spoken 
of  Dinah's  paintings  —  a  friend  who  understood 
much  more  about  such  things  than  Beth  did. 

Liza  had,  of  course,  been  told  about  Beth's 
visit  and  had  her  own  opinions  about  the  Slin- 
skys' situation. 

"The  idea  of  anybody  holdin'  such  heathen 
doctrines  !"  she  declared.  "Them  Jews  hadn't 
ought  to  have  ever  come  to  a  up-to-date  Christian 
country  like  this  where  there  ain't  nobody  go  in' 
t'  put  up  with  their  outlandish  beliefs.  I  don't 
see  who  ever  saddled  'em  with  such  a  crazy  lot  o' 
laws." 

"Moses  —  mostly,"  Eleanor  suggested. 

"Humph!"     Liza  snorted.     "I  don't  doubt 


128  JUST  FOLKS 

he  was  a  right  smart  man  fer  his  time.  But, 
land !  he's  been  dead  a  few  thousand  years  an' 
the  world's  a-bin  learnin'  somethin'  ever  since 
he  quit  it.  I  says  as  much  to  one  o'  them  Jew 
women  that  was  arguin'  t'  me  about  their  ways 
one  day.  Why,  if  them  Jews  was  starvin'  they 
wouldn't  touch  good  Christian  meat ;  want  the 
blood  all  koshered  out  of  it,  till  'tain't  fit  t'  sole 
shoes  with;  ain't  enough  fer  'em  to  insist  on 
gittin'  cattle  killed  the  bloodiest  possible  way, 
but  when  they  git  the  meat  they  soak  it  in  salt- 
water for  hours  till  you  wouldn'  know  it  from 
tripe !  And  when  she  come  back  at  me  'bout 
Moses  I  jest  up  an'  told  her.  '  Them  laws,' 
I  says,  'may  'a'  been  all  right  fer  the  children  o' 
Israel  in  the  Wilderness,  because  look  at  'em ! 
Bein'  slaves  so  long,  they  was  that  scurvy  an' 
low  down  'at  God  had  to  drive  'em  out  into  the 
desert  an'  let  clean  air  blow  on  'em  fer  forty  years, 
an'  one  generation  die  off  an'  another  come  on, 
'fore  He  could  let  'em  into  a  decent  country. 
Seems  t'  me,'  I  says,  'I'd  have  more  pride  about 
me  'n  t'  act's  if  I  thought  them  laws  was  meant 
fer  me  !'  But  'tain't  no  use  in  yer  wastin'  wind 
on  'em  !  They  think  they  know,  and  that's  an 
end  on'tl" 

"Most  people  are  positive  about  their  religious 
beliefs  —  if  they  have  any,"   Eleanor  said. 

"Not  me!"  declared  Liza,  promptly.  "I 
ain't  never  been  one  to  haggle  about  religion." 


JUST  FOLKS  129 

Eleanor  repressed  a  smile.  "They  don't  try 
to  interfere  with  any  one  else's  ways,  do  they  ?" 
she  asked. 

"  Well,  I  should  hope  not !  Fer  of  all  the  crazy 
ways,  their  ways  is  worst.  Why,  they  dassent  t' 
strike  a  match  on  Satadys,  t'  light  a  fire;  but 
they  pay  a  Gentile  child  a  nickel  t'  strike  it  fer 
'em,  an'  then  they  warm  theirselves  by  it !  And 
they  dassent  take  a  knife  in  hand  to  cut  the  string 
of  a  passel ;  but  if  you'll  undo  the  passel  an' 
hand  'em  the  contents,  they'll  do  most  anythin' 
with  it.  It's  a  sin  to  ride  in  a  car,  Satadys  ;  but 
it  ain't  no  sin  t'  walk  down  town  an'  go  t'  the 
theayter  —  if  ye  got  the  price.  Seems  that 
Moses,  not  knowin'  about  theayters,  didn' 
think  t'  say  nothin'  agin  'em."    > 

Eleanor  looked  thoughtful.  "Well,"  she  said, 
"  I  guess  most  religions  have  their  inconsistencies  ; 
or^rather,  some  of  the  people  who  practise  them 
have.  When  I  was  a  child  I  was  not  allowed 
to  play  anything  on  the  piano,  Sundays,  but 
hymn  tunes.  After  I  discovered  that  a  number 
of  the  most  pious  hymns  were  set  to  music  from 
operas,  I  always  chose  those  to  play  and  pre- 
tended to  myself  I  was  playing  opera,  though 
father  thought  I  was  playing  hymns.  And  it 
was  forbidden  to  study  lessons  on  Sunday.  But 
when  I  began  to  study  Greek,  I  could  read  the 
Greek  Testament  on  Sunday  and  learn  some- 
thing without  actually  breaking  the  law.     I  had 


130  JUST  FOLKS 

no  better  sense  of  the  Christian  religion  than 
that ! " 

Liza  seemed  inclined  for  further  discussion, 
but  just  then  Beth  came  back  and  said  the  Slinskys 
had  asked  her  to  bring  her  friend  in. 

The  heat  had  abated  by  a  few  degrees,  but  the 
abatement  was  more  perceptible  outdoors  than 
in ;  the  houses  of  the  Ghetto  were  like  slow- 
cooling  ovens,  and  the  atmosphere  of  the  Slinskys' 
"front  room"  was  pretty  bad.  But  Eleanor's 
breeding  was  exquisite,  and  if  she  was  discom- 
fited by  the  closeness  and  the  rancid  poverty 
smell,  she  gave  no  sign.  Beth  noted  the  keen  way 
in  which  Mrs.  Slinsky  watched  Eleanor,  as  if  on 
the  alert  to  detect  the  least  evidence  of  curiosity 
or  condescension,  and  to  resent  it.  The  little 
be-wigged  grandmother,  who  talked  only  Yiddish, 
faded  away  after  one  look  at  the  visitors  ;  Sarah 
was  not  at  home;  so  they  were  but  four  in  the 
Slinskys'  room  of  ceremony,  and  after  a  few 
moments  the  conversation  settled  to  an  animated 
interchange  between  Eleanor  and  Dinah  with  the 
other  two  no  more  than  deeply-interested  on- 
lookers. 

The  paintings  were  displayed  and  discussed 
gravely.  Dinah  spoke  of  her  desire  to  be  a 
painter,  and  Eleanor  offered  what  advice  she 
could  regardless,  apparently,  of  any  obstacles 
like  grim  poverty  and  stubby  fingers. 

Mrs.   Slinsky  was  lost  in  admiration  of  her 


JUST  FOLKS  131 

Dinah's  cleverness.  Beth  was  as  lost  in  admira- 
tion of  Eleanor's. 

In  some  turn  the  conversation  took,  Eleanor 
mentioned  Millet.  Dinah  had  heard  of  him. 
Eleanor  went  on  to  speak  of  his  pictures,  his  life, 
his  ideals,  the  opposition  he  had  met,  what  he 
stood  for  in  art,  in  a  way  not  noticeably  different 
than  she  might  have  followed  in  talking  with 
others  who,  like  herself,  had  studied  the  best 
of  the  Millet  pictures,  had  been  to  Barbizon, 
had  read  his  Life  and  Letters,  and  knew  the  art 
history  of  his  day.  Dinah  was  delighted  and 
even  Mrs.  Slinsky  was  appreciative.  Eleanor 
mentioned  Millet's  poverty,  his  sufferings  from  ill- 
health,  his  struggles  to  support  his  large  family, 
his  simple  peasant's  life,  his  credo  as  expressed 
in  the  famous  letter  to  Sensier  after  the  storm  of 
criticism  aroused  by  "The  Man  with  the  Hoe." 

To  Beth,  listening  as  raptly  as  any,  the  poor 
"front  room"  of  the  Slinskys  seemed,  suddenly, 
a  wonderful  place  transfused  with  the  light  of  a 
great  life  greatly  lived. 

Eleanor  spoke  of  Napoleon  III  and  his  im- 
patience with  the  fame  of  Millet;  of  how  the 
Emperor  exclaimed  "Enough  !  I  am  tired  hear- 
ing of  this  painter  of  sabots;"  and  of  how  the 
Emperor  had  died,  discrowned  and  dishonored, 
while  the  world's  veneration  of  the  painter  and  the 
ideals  he  stood  for  grew  deeper  and  more  ineradi- 
cable with  every  year. 


132  JUST  FOLKS 

"Israels,  too,  paints  poor  people,"  said  Dinah. 

Yes,  Eleanor  had  had  the  honor  to  meet 
Israels,  to  be  in  his  studio.  She  owned  a  pic- 
ture of  his  which  she  hoped  Dinah  would  come 
and  see. 

"There  has  never  been  a  great  painter  of  the 
Ghetto,  yet,"  Eleanor  went  on,  almost  as  if 
musing  aloud.  "The  French  peasant  has  his 
Millet  and  his  Breton;  the  Dutch  cottagers 
have  Blommers;  the  Dutch  fisherfolk  their 
Israels.  But  the  picturesque  city  types,  espe- 
cially those  in  which  all  Ghettoes  are  rich,  have 
no  painter." 

Dinah's  face  was  all  alight  with  tremulous 
hope.  "I  —  I  should  love  to  paint  them,"  she 
said,  "but  I  am  so  —  short." 

"Israels  is  short,"  said  Eleanor,  "almost  as 
short  as  you  are." 

"Is  he?"  cried  Dinah.  "And  he  is  a  Jew, 
too  !  Not  many  Jews  have  been  great  artists,  I 
know;   but  he  is." 

"There  is  no  reason  why  Jews  shouldn't  be," 
Eleanor  broke  in  eagerly;  "they're  the  most  po- 
etic people  on  earth,  with  the  most  wonderful 
traditions  !" 

That  burst  of  unmistakably  real  enthusiasm 
gave  Eleanor  a  secure  place  in  the  Slinsky  affec- 
tions. 

"And  then,"  she  went  on,  "you're  a  Pole, 
aren't  you  ?     Think  of  the  heritage  you  have 


JUST  FOLKS  133 

there  !  Why,  any  one  who  is  a  Jew  and  a  Pole 
ought  to  be  equal  to  anything  artistic  !" 

For  an  instant,  Dinah  seemed  carried  away  by 
the  vision  offered  her.  Then  her  face  clouded, 
and  Eleanor  almost  winced  before  the  pain  in  it 
as  she  said  :  — 

"Yes,  I  have  it  all  in  me  here,"  pointing  to  her 
heart,  "but  only  these,"  holding  out  her  stubby 
hands,  "to  express  it  with." 

No  one  was  able  to  speak  for  a  moment  during 
which  the  light  seemed  to  fade  from  the  dingy 
room  as  from  Dinah's  face,  and  the  air  to  be- 
come heavy  with  its  habitual  woe,  its  grim 
acceptance  of  "Judgment." 

Then  Eleanor's  voice,  speaking  very  softly, 
broke  the  strained  silence.  "The  reason,"  she 
said,  so  earnestly  that  no  one  could  doubt  her 
intense  sincerity,  "that  I  thought  you  might 
become  a  great  artist  is  that  you  have  so  much  to 
overcome.  Great  overcoming  has  been  the  his- 
tory of  all  great  art.  It  seems,  the  more  you 
learn  about  it,  that  the  first  thing  God  does, 
when  He  wants  anybody  to  be  great,  is  to  fill 
that  person's  way  with  apparently  insurmount- 
able obstacles." 

"Then  you  think  —  ?"  whispered  Dinah, 
afraid  to  breathe  it  aloud. 

"I  feel  quite  sure  God  must  have  meant  you 
to  do  something  unusually  fine,  or  He  wouldn't 
have  made  you  as  you  are." 


i34  JUST  FOLKS 

After  Eleanor  had  gone  home,  radiant  with 
plans  for  Dinah's  future,  Dinah  came  tapping 
very  timidly  on  Liza  Allen's  kitchen  door.  She 
wouldn't  come  in ;  she  just  wanted  to  speak  to 
Beth  from  the  hall  — to  speak  about  Mrs.  Brent. 

"I  think,"  said  Dinah,  speaking  of  her  new 
friend,  "she  must  be  a  very  great  lady,  because 
she  made  me  feel  so  happy." 

Which  same,  Beth  thought,  was  as  good  a  defi- 
nition of  great  ladyhood  as  she  had  ever  heard. 


VIII 

It  is  almost  impossible  to  make  a  daylight 
call  unannounced  in  Henry  Street.  The  out- 
posts are  legion ;  some  of  them  are  found  to  be 
even  beyond  the  confines  of  Henry  Street  itself, 
in  a  group  of  marble  players  on  Waller  Street  or 
among  a  flying  squadron  of  "hitchers"  on  Blue 
Island  Avenue.  On  sight  of  any  stranger  whose 
destination  they  know,  these  lookouts  will 
either  communicate  the  news  to  the  nearest 
member  of  the  household  to  be  visited  or,  if  the 
call  promises  to  be  of  general  interest,  will  dive 
down  some  alley  short-cut  and  deliver  the  an- 
nouncement, avant  courier  fashion,  in  kitchen 
door  or  window. 

It  was  well  on  past  mid-afternoon  of  a  swelter- 
ing day  in  early  September  —  when  Chicago 
usually  has  its  most  withering  heat  —  that 
Frankie  Finnegan  shouted  at  Dewey  Casey, 
"Yer  aunt's  comin' !" 

It  was  no  secret  to  any  one  in  Henry  Street  that 
Mary  Casey's  sisters,  and  in  particular  this  Mrs. 
Foley,  disapproved  of  Casey  and  seldom  visited 
the  Casey  family;  and  by  the  time  she  had 
reached  the  top  of  the  stairs  leading  down  to  the 

135 


136  JUST  FOLKS 

Caseys'  passageway,  Mrs.  Foley  had  a  large  and 
unabashed  following. 

Dewey  was  watering  his  garden  when  the 
word  came,  and  the  poor,  soggy  bit  of  ground 
must  have  been  grateful  for  the  rival  interest 
which  withdrew  Dewey  for  a  brief  space  and  gave 
the  yard-square  of  oozy  earth  a  respite  from 
anxious  waterings. 

Mary  thanked  her  stars  that  she  didn't  happen 
to  be  washing,  and  that  the  kitchen  was  fairly 
clean  and  free  from  litter.  The  children,  even  to 
baby  Annie,  were  playing  in  the  street  when 
Frankie  shouted  his  announcement,  but  they  were 
in  Mrs.  Foley's  wake,  every  one,  before  she  reached 
her  sister's  door,  and  with  them  was  a  motley 
collection  of  neighbors  under  sixteen. 

"Come  in,  Kate  !"  said  Mary.  "Sure,  I'm 
awful  glad  t'  see  ye.     An'  how  've  ye  bin  ?" 

"I'm  bad,  Mamie;  I'm  tur'ble  bad.  My 
stum'ck  won'  work  at  all." 

At  this  interesting  beginning  the  followers 
came  closer.  They  included  five  Caseys,  three 
Conleys  from  across  the  street,  several  Riordans 
(newly  moved  in  upstairs)  and  an  indefinite 
number  of  Russian  Jews  —  the  Rubovitzes  among 
them  —  from  above,  and  beside,  and  behind,  and 
everywhere.  The  kitchen  seemed  crowded  to 
suffocation,  the  Jews  waxing  so  bold  as  to  stand 
under  Mrs.  Foley's  very  nose  and  to  handle  her 
garments  with  appraising  fingers. 


JUST  FOLKS  137 

"  Fer  th'  love  o'  Heaven  !  send  off  some  o' 
these  Sheenies,  can't  ye?"  Mrs.  Foley  cried 
irritably. 

With  no  little  difficulty  Mary  chased  them  out, 
but  she  had  to  shut  the  door  to  keep  them  at  bay. 
In  a  moment  the  heat  became  unbearable  and  the 
door  had  to  be  opened  again,  with  Johnny  and 
Midget  stationed  at  the  threshold  to  defy  in- 
vaders —  a  situation  of  which  they  made  the 
most,  Johnny  enforcing  his  orders  with  a  battered 
broom. 

"Are  they  always  after  doin'  this  way?'5 
asked  Mrs.  Foley,  shooting  disdainful  glances  at 
the  undisturbed  Hebrews. 

"Mos'ly,"  confessed  Mary,  apologetically. 
"Thim  Jews  has  no  behavior  an'  ye  can't  do 
nothin'  wid  'em." 

"'Tis  a  fine  day  whin  a  Christian  body  can't 
call  on  her  own  sister  an'  tell  her  troubles,  widout 
bein'  run  over  wid  a  pack  of  Sheenies,"  observed 
Mrs.  Foley,  who  lived  beyond  the  confines  of 
the  Ghetto  and  felt  frank  commiseration  for  her 
poor  relations.  And,  just  to  spite  the  curious 
hovering  near  the  threshold,  Mrs.  Foley  entered 
upon  no  further  discussion  of  her  "stum'ck"  and 
its  woes,  but  plied  her  sister  with  questions  about 
the  welfare  of  the  Caseys  until  Mollie  who  had 
been  dispatched  for  beer,  returned  with  her 
pitcher,  and  hospitality  began  in  earnest. 

"Is  he  workin'  ? "  inquired  the  guest. 


138  JUST  FOLKS 

"Off  V  on,  but  not  stiddy.  Seem  like  theer's 
no  wither  that's  rale  good  fer  cuttin'  stone  — 
winters  'tis  too  cold,  an'  springs  'tis  too  wet,  an' 
summers  'tis  too  warm.  I'm  after  tellin'  Johnny, 
here,  whin  he  go  t'  work,  t'  take  up  wid  a  trade 
that's  indoors,  so  he  kin  git  on  in  all  withers." 

"Is  he  drinkin'  much  ?" 

"Not  much.  He  do  be  havin'  his  drinks  ivry 
day,  an'  avenin's  he  bring  min  in  here  t'  play 
cards  an'  have  theer  beer.  But  sure  ye  can't 
ixpict  annythin'  else.  I  niver  see  a  man  that  was 
dif'runt  —  they  all  have  th'  failin'.  But  it's 
not  the  drink  I'd  mind  so  much,  if  he  was  just 
stiddy.  I  tell  ye,  Kate,  ye  kin  stan'  most  anny- 
thin' if  theer  stiddy  an'  got  ambition  t'  git  on. 
An'  that's  what  he  ain't  niver  had." 

The  moral  tone  of  Mrs.  Casey's  reflections  was 
a  disappointment  to  the  Jews.  They  hearkened 
to  a  little  of  it,  then  melted  reluctantly  away. 
Even  the  Caseys  found  it  familiarly  dull  and 
straggled  off  one  by  one  to  other  pursuits  — 
Dewey  to  carry  another  dipper  of  water  to  his 
drenched  garden  in  the  hope  of  accelerating  the 
peach  crop  expected  from  five  pits,  now  a  week 
planted  with  no  visible  results  in  spite  of  zealous 
watering. 

i  "Whin  'tis  not  wan  t'ing  'tis  another,"  ob- 
served Mrs.  Foley,  sententiously.  "Ye  t'ink  if 
yer  man'd  be  stiddy  ye'd  be  a'  right.  But  my 
man's  stiddy,  an'  I'm  goin'  t'  be  outs  wid  'im." 


JUST  FOLKS  139 

"Fer  th'  love  o'  Hivin  !     Why  ?"  cried  Mary. 

"  'Count  o'  me  bein'  sick  s'  much.  He  says  he's 
tired  of  it.  'It's  "hidache"  here,  an'  "me  stum- 
'ck"  there,  an'  midecine  an'  doctor  bills  ivry- 
wheer,'  he  says,  'an'  I  wish  ye'd  die  an'  be  done 
wid  it,'  he  says." 

Mrs.  Foley's  tears  fell  as  she  told  her  sad  tale 
—  big  briny  drops  that  rolled  slowly  down  her 
shrunken  cheeks  and  splashed  on  the  scrawny 
hands  folded  passively  in  her  lap. 

Mollie  and  baby  Annie  stared,  wide-eyed; 
even  the  baby  seemed  to  sense  the  scene  as  un- 
usual, and  Mollie  was  quite  wisely  aware  that  it 
was  no  ordinary  day  when  her  Aunt  Kate  came 
to  their  kitchen  to  cry. 

For  Aunt  Kate's  husband  was  a  stationary 
engineer  who  earned  his  $75  a  month  and  held 
his  head  very  high,  notwithstanding  Pa  Casey's 
reminders,  on  those  infrequent  occasions  when  he 
had  the  chance,  that  "  stone-cuttin'  be  worth  a 
hundred  an'  twinty  a  month  agin  a  man  that  kin 
do  it  'd  work  ivry  day."  The  Foleys  lived  in  a 
flat  on  West  Lake  Street,  and  had  a  front  parlor 
with  a  "stuffed  suit"  and  a  patent  rocker  and  a 
mantel-shelf  shrouded  in  a  voluminous  purple 
"drape"  and  burdened  with  innumerable  fancy 
cups  and  vases  secured  with  trading  stamps  or 
given  with  pounds  of  tea. 

On  rare  occasions  the  Casey  children  had  been 
taken  to  call  at  this  swell  establishment,  but  it 


i4o  JUST  FOLKS 

could  not  truthfully  be  said  that  they  were 
ever  encouraged  to  make  free  with  their  rich  rela- 
tions. 

There  were  no  children  in  the  Foley  flat  — 
only  highly-colored  "enlargements,"  in  plush  and 
gilt  frames,  of  children's  photographs :  little 
girls  in  much  Hamburg  edging  and  wide  sashes, 
and  little  boys  in  enormous  Fauntleroy  collars 
and  queer  little  Derby  hats.  The  children  were 
all  in  Calvary,  whither  most  of  them  (there  had 
been  ten)  had  gone  even  before  the  days  of  sashes 
and  stiff  hats. 

Doubtless  it  was  because  she  had  so  little  else 
to  do  that  Mrs.  Foley  —  like  other  idle  rich  — 
found  so  much  time  to  be  sick.  Mary  Casey  was 
certainly  not  less  broken  down  and  ailing,  but 
had  no  time  to  remember  the  fact.  If  Casey  had 
wished  her  dead,  she  would  have  felt  no  surprise. 
Indeed,  he  had  more  than  once  tried  to  assist  her 
speedily  out  of  the  world  by  violence;  but  she 
laid  the  offence,  with  all  his  others,  to  that  fatal 
lack  of  ambition  which  was  the  curse  of  their  lives. 

But  that  Foley  should  show  this  hardness  of 
heart  toward  his  wife's  sufferings  was  a  terrible 
shock  to  Mary  Casey,  who  had  always  envied  her 
sister  Foley's  "stiddiness"  while  sympathizing 
with  her  in  the  loss  of  one  child  after  another. 
Not  for  any  consideration  of  income  would  Mary 
have  changed  places  with  her  sister  and  lived  in 
the  childless  Foley  home ;  but  nevertheless  —  like 


JUST  FOLKS  141 

most  of  us  —  she  was  inclined  to  dreams  of 
what  might  have  been  if  she  could  have  added 
Kate's  blessings  to  her  own  and  dispensed  with  the 
drawbacks  of  either  lot  in  life. 

"Well,  now!"  she  ejaculated  as  Mrs.  Foley 
told  her  tale.  "What  d'  ye  t'ink  o'  that  ?  Me 
always  feelin'  how  aisy  ye  had  it,  wid  a  nice  house 
an'  plinty  o'  ivrythin'  an'  no  worry  o'  bein'  set 
out  er  havin'  the  stove  took  off  o'  ye  er  yer  word 
rayfused  t'  the  groc'ry  !  It  do  go  t'  show  that  all 
has  theer  troubles.     Now,  don't  it,  Kate?" 

Kate  nodded  a  forlorn  assent.  She  had  none 
of  Mary  Casey's  interest  in  the  philosophy  of 
trouble.  She  could  only  remember  that  Foley 
had  wished  she  would  die  and  have  done  with  her 
sickly  wails. 

"An'  whin  I'm  gon' !"  she  cried,  shrill  anger 
taking  the  place  of  despair,  "I'll  bet  I'll  not  be 
cold  before  he's  foun'  him  some  strappin'  huzzy 
that's  not  wore  out  wid  his  tin  childern  all  in 
Calvary  —  God  rist  theer  souls  ! " 

"Sure!"  Mary's  eyes  blazed  at  the  thought 
of  this  injustice.  "That's  mini  But  I'd  fool 
him  !  I'd  git  aven  wid  'im.  Is  it  a  husky  guy 
he  want  ?     Thin  you  be  that  husky  guy  ! " 

A  gleam  of  interest  shone  in  Mrs.  Foley's 
tear-filled  eyes,  and  her  sister  went  on. 

"You  take  my  word,  Kate  Foley,  an'  give  'im 
what  he  wants  !  Stop  doin'  yer  washin'.  He's 
will-t'-do;   l'ave  'm  pay  fer  a  washerwoman  fer 


i42  JUST  FOLKS 

ye.  An'  lay  down  an'  take  t'ings  aisy.  Drink  a 
couple  o'  beers  ivry  day  an'  put  some  fat  on  ye  — 
I  niver  see  the  man  that  could  abide  bones. 
An'  thin  buy  yersilf  some  nice  dressin'  sacks  an'  go 
out  on  th'  Avena  an'  have  some  style  about  ye. 
Take  car  rides,  an'  see  if  the  air  don'  hilp  yer  hid. 
An'  if  it  don't,  let  on  like  it  did.  Stop  tellin' 
'bout  yer  stum'ck  an'  yer  hid,  an'  brag  'bout  yer 
new  sacks  an'  what  ye  seen  an'  wheer  yer  goin' 
nixt.  'Tis  what  his  husky  guy'd  be  doin'  if  you 
was  in  yer  grave." 

Mrs.  Foley  dried  her  eyes.  "I  b'leeve  I  will," 
she  said,  with  a  self-conscious  little  giggle. 

Mary  was  deliciously  excited.  "Got  anny 
money  ?" 

Yes,  Mrs.  Foley  had  six  dollars ;  but  it  was 
"agin  th'  rint." 

"Niver  mind  th'  rint,"  commanded  Mary, 
"Pete  Foley  ain't  goin'  t'  git  set  out  fer  no  six 
dollars.  You  come  right  out  wid  me  an'  I'll  help 
ye  spind  it.  Thin,  whin  Ang'la  Ann  come  home 
she'll  l'arn  ye  a  shwell  new  way  o'  doin'  yer  hair ; 
an'  agin  ye  go  home,  Pete  Foley'll  t'ink  yer  some 
husky  guy  come  t'  flirt  wid  'im,  an'  be  takin' 
ye  t'  shoot  th'  chutes." 

All  Kate  Foley's  doubts  fled  before  this  picture 
conjured  by  persuasive  eloquence,  and  she  actu- 
ally allowed  Mollie  and  Midget  to  walk  hand 
in  hand  with  her  to  Klein's  Emporium,  Mary 
leading  the  way  with  wee  Annie  in  her  arms. 


JUST  FOLKS  143 

It  was  so  long  since  the  sickly,  broken-spirited, 
little  dyspeptic  had  taken  any  interest  in  personal 
adornment  that  she  was  far  behind  Mary  in  en- 
thusiasm for  "style,"  though  Mary  had  not 
bought  herself  a  stitch  of  clothes  in  unnumbered 
years,  but  wore  the  grotesque  motley  of  people's 
careless  charity. 

True  to  feminine  nature,  the  first  purchase  was 
a  hat.  Mrs.  Foley's  rusty,  black  straw  sailor 
was  laid  on  a  counter  and  the  two  women  and 
three  children  abandoned  themselves  to  the  deli- 
ciousness  of  the  moment.  Mollie  and  Midget  ran 
far  down  the  aisles  collecting  every  imaginable 
kind  of  head-gear,  which  their  aunt  and  mother 
successively  tried  on,  then  handed  back  for  the 
children  to  perch  at  rakish  angles  on  their  own 
unkempt  heads  while  they  smirked  delightedly  at 
themselves  in  the  mirrors.  Even  wee  Annie  made 
the  most  of  this  "trying"  opportunity  —  or  the 
others  did  for  her  —  and  dimpled  and  smiled 
under  the  brims  of  hats  deemed  "swell"  for 
babies  in  the  Ghetto. 

At  length  Mrs.  Foley  and  her  admiring  train 
agreed  upon  a  confection  of  pale  blue  tarletan, 
much  frilled  and  shirred,  with  a  drooping  effect 
of  coarse,  yellow  lace  over  the  brim  and  a  spray  of 
solferino  pink  roses  about  the  crown. 

"Ooh  !"  breathed  Midget  and  Mollie,  ecstati- 
cally, caressing  it  with  tender  but  dirty  fingers. 

"Me!"   screamed  Annie,  lurching  toward  it, 


144  JUST  FOLKS 

entranced,  and  yelling  loudly  when  it  was 
snatched  from  under  her  grasp  and  carried  off  to 
the  wrapping  desk  to  be  done  up  in  a  paper  bag. 
The  next  purchases  were  on  the  same  floor,  one 
was  a  white  shirt-waist,  very  "peekaboo,"  and 
the  other  was  a  kimona  sack  of  gay-colored 
lawn,  with  bands  of  turkey  red. 

"He  do  love  rid,"  Mrs.  Foley  murmured  as  she 
chose  this. 

On  the  main  floor  they  bought  a  red  neck  ribbon 
and  a  red  tulle  bow.  Then  Mrs.  Foley  was  for 
stopping,  but  Mary  Casey  was  intoxicated  and 
there  was  no  halting  her  till  the  six  dollars  were 
gone.  Not  since  she  was  married  had  she  assisted 
at  the  spending  of  so  much  money  "at  wan 
lick." 

She  paused  at  the  jewelry  counter,  transfixed 
with  delight,  a  queer,  pathetic  figure  with  her 
stained,  bedrabbled  brown  skirt  six  inches  too 
short  in  front  and  nearly  as  much  sundered  from 
her  bulging  gray  flannel  waist  at  the  belt  behind. 
She  was  bareheaded,  with  her  wisp  of  dark  hair 
screwed  into  a  hard  little  knot  like  a  butternut 
and  "skewered"  with  a  huge  spike  of  a  steel 
hairpin  from  which  the  blacking  had  long  since 
worn  off. 

"Look  !"  she  cried  joyously,  holding  out  a 
long  chain  of  blue  beads.  "Thim's  swell,  Kate," 
she  tempted,  "thim's  awful  swell.  I'm  after 
seein'  all  the  high-steppers  wearin'  'em,  wid  a  fan 


JUST  FOLKS  145 

'tached  to  th'  ind  !  Ye  got  to  stip  high  for  Pete 
Foley  —  if  ye  don't,  some  wan  ilse  will." 

So  the  beads  were  bought  —  also  a  fan  made 
of  cloth  roses  that  closed  to  simulate  a  bouquet. 
It  seemed  to  Kate  Foley  then  that  there  was 
nothing  more  for  money  to  buy,  but  Mary  Casey 
was  not  so  minded.  The  crowning  extravagance, 
marking  the  "swell"  that  was-to-be,  was  near  the 
door,  on  the  way  out.  Mrs.  Foley  balked ;  this 
was  going  too  far.  But  Mary  held  out,  her  eyes 
shining  with  excitement. 

"They  all  do,"  she  whispered,  "th'  min  are 
great  after  it."  And  a  bottle  of  cheap  but  power- 
ful perfume  was  added  to  the  pile  of  purchases. 
Then  the  homeward  march  began. 

It  was  half-past  five  when  they  reached  Henry 
Street,  where  their  appearance,  bundle-laden,  was 
the  signal  for  the  gathering  of  a  crowd. 

Down  the  long  flight  of  rickety  stairs  they  went 
single  file,  and  along  the  dark,  narrow  passageway 
between  their  tenement  and  the  next,  the  proces- 
sion following.  The  Caseys  had  disdain  for  the 
rabble,  as  became  persons  so  splendidly  con- 
nected, but  they  had  no  wish  to  disperse  it; 
for  what's  the  value  of  splendor  if  there's  no  one 
to  envy  you  ? 

One  by  one  the  things  were  unwrapped  and 
spread  in  overpowering  array  on  the  kitchen 
table. 

"Ye  mus'  go  home  in  'em,"  Mary  commanded. 


146  JUST  FOLKS 

"Agin  Ang'la  Ann  come  she'll  be  showin'  ye  a  lot. 
She's  tur'ble  quick  at  style,  an'  she  see  a  lot; 
fer  thim  girls  wheer  she  work  is  dredful  dressy  — 
'cordin'  t'  what  she  say." 

Angela  Ann  came  in  at  half-past  six  and  viewed 
with  astonishment  the  purchases. 

"Yer  aunt,"  said  Mary,  "have  been  frettin' 
hersilf  sick  over  the  childern  all  bein'  took  an' 
her  stum'ck  actin'  quare-like.  An'  I've  told  'er 
what  she  nade  is  t'  spunk  up  an'  enjoy  life  an' 
l'ave  off  grievin'.  So  she  've  bought  some  new 
t'ings  fer  t'  spruce  hersilf  wid  an'  surprise  yer 
Uncle  Peter." 

"Sure,"  Angela  Ann  agreed,  comprehendingly. 
"Ain't  I  always  tellin'  ye  a  person  have  got  t' 
dress  fer  min  ?  I  b'leeve  Pa'd  git  a  hustle  on  'im 
if  you  spruced  up  an'  made  'im  !" 

Mary  sighed.  "'Tain't  the  same,"  she  said. 
"'Tis  nothin'  t'  yer  pa  how  I  look.  Yer  aunt 
Kate'll  have  a  playsure  in  givin'  her  man  this 
nice  surprise,  because  he's  stiddy  an'll  apprayciate 
it.  But  yer  pa  ain't  like  him.  He  ain't  got  no 
ambition  t'  git  on,  an'  it's  nothin'  t'  him  how  I 
look." 

All  this,  as  doubtless  Mary  intended,  was  send- 
ing Pete  Foley's  stock  steadily  up  with  Mrs. 
Kate,  already  beginning  to  wear  the  airs  of  a 
woman  whose  charms  are  her  tower  of  strength. 

Angela  Ann  took  down  her  aunt's  coarse,  oily 
hair  and  built  her  a  pompadour  of  dimensions  as 


JUST  FOLKS  147 

towering  as  the  lack  of  "rats"  would  permit. 
Then  the  peekaboo  waist  was  donned  and  the 
scarlet  neck  ribbon  tied  behind,  the  tulle  bow 
pinned  on  in  front.  Beads  and  fan  were  adjusted, 
and  Mrs.  Foley's  handkerchief  was  soaked  in 
cologne,  and  the  new  hat  put  on. 

Mary  surveyed  the  results  with  beaming  pride. 
"My  land  !"  she  cried,  ecstatically,  "ye  look  fer 
all  the  world  like  Mis'  Patter  Pammer  in  the  Sunda' 
papers  !" 

The  small  children  accompanied  their  resplen- 
dent relative  to  the  car ;  Angela  Ann  stayed  be- 
hind and  indulged  in  bitter  observations  to  her 
ma. 

"Pm  sick  an'  tired  o'  the  way  we  have  t'  do," 
she  said  —  the  prospect  of  her  aunt's  dramatic 
home-coming  making  her  sore  with  envy. 

"I  know,"  soothed  Mary.  "But  whin  I  t'ink 
o'  yer  aunt's  nice  house  wid  niver  a  child  in  it, 
'tain't  me  that'd  trade  places  wid  'er." 

"Well,  /  would!"  cried  Angela.  "We  got 
too  many  kids  around  here  an'  that's  why  we 
can't  never  git  along.  I'm  tired  o'  havin' 
everythin'  I  earn  et  off  o'  me  an'  never  a  cent  t'  git 
me  a  decent  t'ing  wid  !" 

Mary's  face  was  a  study.  She  had  no  reply 
ready,  as  she  usually  had,  but  seemed  to  be  strug- 
gling to  say  something  that  was  difficult  to  say. 
Angela  Ann,  in  her  bitter  self-absorption,  did  not 
notice  her  mother ;   and  Mary,  suddenly  weak  in 


148  JUST  FOLKS 

the  knees,  went  into  her  bedroom  and  sat  down 
on  the  edge  of  her  bed. 

When  she  reappeared  thence,  in  a  few  moments, 
she  began  a  new  conversation  on  quite  different 
lines.  It  was  intended  to  cheer  up  Angela  —  but 
Angela  refused  to  be  cheered. 

After  supper  that  night,  Mary  went  over  to 
Maxwell  Street.  Beth  was  not  in,  and  Liza 
was  entertaining  Adam  Spear,  so  that  Mary  did 
not  feel  welcome  to  wait.  She  asked  if  Liza 
knew  where  Miss  Tully  was,  and  Liza  said  she 
thought  Beth  was  at  that  small  Settlement  not 
far  away  to  which,  one  evening  a  week,  her  pro- 
bation boys  came  to  report  to  her.  So  Mary 
walked  over  in  the  direction  of  the  Settlement  and 
waited  for  Beth  to  come  out. 

It  was  one  of  those  muggy  nights  when  the 
Ghetto  streets  swarm  so  thickly  with  humanity 
that  even  one  who  is  used  to  the  sight  can  never 
get  through  asking  himself  what  America  is  to 
do  with  these  hordes  on  hordes  of  people 
increasing  so  rapidly,  by  immigration  and  by 
births,  that  their  numbers  make  the  brain  whirl. 

Beth  had  been  coping  all  evening  —  as,  indeed, 
she  coped  all  the  time  —  with  the  results  of  over- 
crowding ;  of  no  place  to  play,  no  room  at  home 
to  stay  in,  no  decency  in  the  close  living  quarters, 
and  she  was  disheartened  with  the  great,  big, 
unequal  fight. 


JUST  FOLKS  149 

When  she  caught  sight  of  Mary,  her  heart 
sank ;  for  she  knew  Mary  would  not  have  sought 
her  out  except  to  ask  her  aid  in  trouble,  and  it 
seemed  to-night  that  she  was  too  discouraged 
to  hear  another  woe. 

"Well,  Mary,"  she  said,  trying  to  speak 
cheerily,  as  they  threaded  their  way  through  the 
swarming  streets,  "how  are  things  going  with 
you  ?" 

"Pritty  fair,"  Mary  answered,  "but  I  got 
awful  misgivin's." 

"What  about?" 

"'Bout  Ang'la  for  wan  t'ing.  An'  about  — 
well,  all  av  us,  fer  another." 

"Has  Angela  quit  her  job  ?  " 

"No'm,  she  haven't  —  yit." 

"Is  she  going  to  ?" 

"  I  dunno,  Miss  Tully  —  I  dunno  what  she'll 
do  —  whin  she  know  — " 

"Knows  what?" 

Then  followed  an  account  of  the  afternoon,  and 
of  the  brief  conversation  between  Angela  Ann 
and   her   mother   after  Aunt   Kate   had   gone. 

"Well,  it's  natural  for  a  young  girl  to  feel 
that  way.  You  couldn't  expect  Angela  to  appre- 
ciate how  you  feel  about  your  children,  or  how 
much  less  happiness  your  sister  can  get  from 
her  finery  than  she  would  have  had  if  her  babies 
had  lived." 

"No,"  said  Mary,  eagerly,  "that's  just   it  — 


ISO  JUST  FOLKS 

she  can't  understan'  —  an'  so  —  I  dunno  what- 
iver  she'll  do  whin  she  have  t'  know  — " 

"Know  what  ?" 

"About  th'  —  th'  new  wan  — " 

"The  what?" 

"Th'  new  wan  that's  comin'  — " 

"To  you?" 

"  Yis  —  " 

"Mary!" 

"I  know  how  ye  feel,  Miss  Tully,"  Mary 
pleaded,  "but  ye  don't  understan'.  Ye've  niver 
had  wan  o'  yer  own.  I  know  theer's  too  manny 
av  us  now,  be  some  folks'  way  o'  countin';  I 
know  we've  not  enough  fer  thim  we  have  to  ate ; 
I  do  fale  bad-like  fer  the  poor  little  t'ing  that  be 
comin'  into  a  hard  world  widout  askin'  t'  come. 
But  if  it  fale  like  I  do,  it'll  be  glad  it  come  — 
glad  of  all  it  have  to  suffer  to  stay  here  — 
ivry  time  it  hold  a  little  child  av  its  own  in  its 
arms.  I  ain't  had  much  happiness,  be  your  way 
o'  t'inkin',  Miss  Tully,  but  whin  I  look  back 
an'  misure  it  all  up,  I  wouldn'  trade  me  hard  life 
wid  its  baby  fingers  clutchin'  at  me  brist,  fer  the 
aisiest  single  life  anny  woman  iver  lived.  An' 
I  can't  be  sorry  'bout  the  new  wan.  I  know  we'll 
git  along,  some  way.  An'  him  !  You  wouldn' 
belave !  He's  that  pleased-like,  an'  he  talk 
lovely  'bout  what  he's  goin'  t'  do  fer  it.  I 
wouldn'  be  su'prised  if  'twas  the  makin'  of  him 
git  a  stiddy  job  !" 


JUST  FOLKS  151 

"I  suppose,"  said  Beth,  repeating  this  as  best 
she  could  to  Eleanor,  next  day,  "that  hope  must 
be  always  and  always  renewing  itself  —  especially 
in  Henry  Street  —  or  life  couldn't  go  on.  And 
every  new  baby  is  a  new  hope,  a  new  channel 
through  which  happiness  may  come.  I  suppose 
that  is  why  God  sends  them  so  freely  to  the 
Ghetto  —  where  they  have  to  have  some  thing 
to  look  forward  to  !  .  .  .  But  oh  !  I'm  fearful 
about  Angela  Ann,  when  she  knows.  A  'new 
one'  to  her,  is  just  one  more  hungry  mouth  be- 
tween her  and  what  she  thinks   is   happiness." 


IX 


Eleanor  Brent  had  no  considerable  amount  of 
money  to  dispense,  for  she  had  come  back  to  her 
parents  completely  dependent  on  them,  and  she 
was  like  most  proud  young  women  in  like  cir- 
cumstance :  willing  to  accept  far  less  from  them 
than  she  had  accepted  in  her  girlhood.  In  vain 
they  argued  —  those  doting  parents  —  with  this 
only  child.  "It  used  to  seem  my  right,"  she 
said,  "and  I  took  all  you  gave  me  without  ques- 
tion. But  now  I  feel  that  it's  not  my  right,  but 
your  kindness,  and  I  don't  want  to  tax  it  any 
more  than  I  can  help." 

This  hurt  her  parents  cruelly,  but  they  hoped 
it  was  only  a  phase  and  would  pass. 

Meantime,  however,  Eleanor  had  abundance 
of  what  is  worth  more  than  money  to  one  with 
an  interest  in  the  Nineteenth  Ward;  she  had 
knowledge  of  life  and  of  its  opportunities,  and 
influence  to  help  the  aspiring  toward  their  hearts' 
desires. 

It  was,  for  instance,  a  simple  matter  for  her  to 
get  Dinah  a  free  scholarship  in  the  Art  Institute. 
Then  she  talked  to  the  Director  and  to  some  of 
the  teachers  about  Dinah,  and  sketched  vividly 

152 


JUST  FOLKS  153 

and  with  intense  sympathy  the  background 
against  which  Dinah's  life  was  lived,  the  pathetic 
acceptance  of  her  affliction  as  "  Judgment." 

This  paved  the  way  beautifully  for  Dinah,  who 
found  a  world  of  kindliness  as  well  as  a  world 
of  inspiration  and  instruction  in  the  beautiful 
gray  building  on  the  Lake  Front. 

The  Slinskys  would  not  have  taken  any  money 
from  Eleanor,  but  they  were  easily  persuaded  to 
accept  the  free  scholarship  for  Dinah,  when  Elea- 
nor explained  to  them  how  money  was  set  aside 
in  every  enlightened  municipality  —  and  always 
has  been,  these  many  centuries  —  for  the  educa- 
tion of  its  talented  youth.  "For  it  has  almost 
never  happened,"  she  went  on,  "that  the  children 
of  parents  who  could  afford  to  pay  were  the  chil- 
dren with  the  divine  gifts.  Nearly  every  great 
artist  was  born  in  poverty;  and  do  you  know 
what  ?  The  rich  and  splendid  persons  who 
helped  them  to  get  education,  would  have  been 
forgotten  long  ago,  but  for  that  one  act.  All  we 
know  about  some  of  the  richest  and  most  splendid 
personages  that  ever  lived  is  that  they  helped 
such  and  such  an  artist !  If  the  artists  hadn't 
allowed  them  to  help,  they'd  never  have  been 
heard  of  at  all.  If  Dinah  becomes  a  great 
painter,  like  Israels,  she  can  give  the  Art  Institute 
in  glory,  ten  thousand  times  as  much  as  it  gives 
her  in  lessons." 

Seeing  it  thus,  the  Slinskys  consented. 


154  JUST  FOLKS 

Then  there  was  Abe.  He  was  anxious  to  be- 
come a  civil  engineer,  but  afraid  he  could  not 
because  he  might  have  to  work  on  Saturdays. 
He  thought  that  probably  he  would  have  to  be  a 
teacher  instead.  Eleanor  took  him  to  see  a  man 
she  knew  who  was  a  civil  engineer.  This  man 
was  enthusiastically  in  love  with  his  profession 
and,  talking  with  him,  Abe's  ardor  for  it  grew  by 
leaps  and  bounds.  But  on  the  homeward  way 
he  told  Eleanor  he  could  see  he  must  not  think 
of  being  an  engineer,  "  for  how,  on  the  plains  or 
such  places  where  I  should  work,  could  I  get  food 
according  to  the  Law,  or  properly  observe  my 
Shabbas?" 

The  inflexibility  of  Abe  was  a  wonder  to 
Eleanor.  He  wanted  to  get  on;  he  had  more 
ambition  than  his  father.  Jacob  could  never 
have  known  any  struggle  about  a  profession,  for 
Jacob  had  only  one  great  purpose  in  life  —  the 
strict  observance  of  his  religious  duties ;  he 
could  never  have  thought  twice  about  a  means 
of  livelihood  which  would  interfere  with  them. 
But  Jacob's  son  was  American  born,  and  had  gone 
to  American  public  schools.  The  atmosphere  he 
breathed  was  full  of  independence,  of  individual- 
ism, of  the  ardor  for  success.  Not  only  every 
American  boy  Abe  knew,  but  every  Jewish 
boy,  was  determined  to  make  his  life  a  big  ad- 
vance, in  worldly  prosperity,  upon  his  father's 
life.     Abe  had  all  this  desire  to  succeed,  but  he 


JUST  FOLKS  155 

had  a  rigidity  of  Hebraic  belief  which  never  bent. 
Ambition  dashed  against  that  rock  and  made  Abe 
unhappy ;  but  the  rock  showed  no  signs  of  erosion. 
Eleanor  could  only  marvel  at  the  boy.  But  when 
she  grew  bitterly  impatient  with  him,  she  reminded 
herself  how  he,  too,  was  anxious  to  keep  every  letter 
of  the  Law,  hoping  thereby  to  appease  Jehovah. 

It  wasn't  that  they  hoped  by  their  rigor  to 
effect  Dinah's  physical  recovery.  They  had 
hoped  that  once,  but  the  hope  was  gone,  now. 
But  they  must  be  unremitting  in  their  zeal  so  as 
to  move  God  to  lift  the  curse  from  their  line; 
otherwise  it  might  descend,  on  and  on,  to  future 
generations.  "The  enormous  personal  responsi- 
bility they  feel!"  said  Eleanor  to  Beth.  "No 
wonder  the  Jews  are  a  sad  people." 

On  the  other  hand,  though,  there  was  Sarah. 
Sarah  was  not  sad,  and  orthodoxy  troubled  Sarah 
only  as  it  was  imposed  upon  her,  not  as  she  felt 
its  urgings  from  within.  Sarah  was  in  High 
School,  too  —  in  first  year  —  but  her  interests 
were  not  at  all  scholastic.  Sarah  was  wildly 
enamored  of  the  stage.  It  was  only  a  question  of 
time  when  Sarah  would  leave  home ;  and  doubt- 
less she  would  run  away.  For  the  stage  is  no 
respecter  of  Saturdays,  and  when  Sarah  got  ready 
to  go  she  would  either  take  for  granted  the 
parental  objection  and  go  without  asking  leave, 
or  would  ask  leave  and,  failing  to  get  it,  go 
anyway.     Beth  and  Eleanor  could  see  this  im- 


156  JUST  FOLKS 

pending,  after  they  had  talked  twice  with  her. 
Obviously,  the  thing  to  do  for  Sarah  was  to  get 
her  confidence  and  try  to  see  that  when  she 
went  on  the  stage  she  should  go  fortified  with 
some  instruction  and  good  advice  and  get  into 
a  company  where  the  general  tone  would  tend 
to  help  her  up  instead  of  down. 

All  this  was  a  large  contract  for  Eleanor,  but 
she  went  at  it  with  a  will.  She  could  do  little 
for  Abe;  there  was  a  struggle  for  which  she 
could  have  no  sympathy,  respect  it  as  she  must. 
No  one  could  do  anything  for  Jacob  except  to 
make  his  children  happy.  For  himself  he  asked 
nothing  but  liberty  to  worship  as  he  must,  and 
health  to  keep  his  family  from  want.  Mrs. 
Slinsky  continually  "spilled  tears,"  as  she  said, 
and  was  not  happy  when  this  melancholy  pleasure 
was  interrupted.  What  time  she  was  not  spil- 
ling them  over  Dinah's  affliction,  or  Sarah's 
levity,  or  her  husband's  advancing  age,  or  her  own 
physical  ailments,  she  was  spilling  them  over  the 
woes  of  the  Jews  in  Russia.  Eleanor  made  one 
or  two  attempts  to  cheer  Mrs.  Slinsky  up; 
then  concluded  that  to  be  cheerful  was  the  least 
of  Mrs.  Slinsky's  desires.  So  her  efforts  nar- 
rowed to  Dinah  and  Sarah  ;  but  they  were  enough 
to  keep  her  very  busy. 

Meanwhile,  the  wedding  which  Hart  Ferris 
thought  was  "as  good  as  planned"  when  he  found 


JUST  FOLKS  1 57 

Adam  Spear,  gave  Beth  —  and,  through  her, 
Ferris  —  several  months  of  anxiety  before  it  came 
to  pass. 

"I  never  saw  such  a  coy  pair  !"  Beth  declared 
impatiently,  to  Ferris,  one  evening  in  October. 
"He  comes,  every  night  of  the  world,  and  'sets' 
on  his  side  of  the  table,  and  reads  The  News  to 
Liza  while  she  sews.  And  they  argue  !  Well  — 
I  guess  you  know !  you've  heard  them  at  it. 
Seems  to  be  their  chief  aim  to  find  something  to 
fall  out  about.  Last  night  it  was  about  the 
infelicities  of  the  poor  lady  who  is  trying  to  ex- 
tract a  measly  $125,000  a  year  alimony  from  her 
multi-millionaire  husband.  They  were  discussing 
her  expenditures,  as  set  forth  in  the  day's  pro- 
ceedings of  the  divorce  case.  Liza  opined  that 
the  lady  was  'a  upstart,'  but  Adam  inclined 
to  think  that  if  her  husband's  income  was  a  mil- 
lion dollars  a  year,  the  share  she  asked  for  was 
very  modest.  Liza  was  particularly  severe  about 
the  lady's  dressmaking  bills,  as  set  forth  in  the 
papers.  'A  woman  don't  need  to  spend  no  such 
sums  on  her  clothes  to  look  nice,'  was  Liza's 
dictum.  Adam  took  the  lady's  part  —  which 
made  Liza  mad.  She  said  he  '  hadn't  no  jedg- 
ment.'  And  when  Adam  saw  how  mad  she  was, 
he  seemed  to  think  it  was  a  jealous  rage  —  which 
so  complimented  him  that  he  went  on,  trying  to 
augment  it. 

When  a  woman's  fascinatm9,9  he  said,   'I 


Cif 


158  JUST  FOLKS 

b'leeve  she  ought  t'  be  allowed  t'  go's  fur's  she 
kin.  'Tain't  so  durn  many  fascinatin'  women 
in  this  world  but  what  they  ought  t'  be  encour- 
aged.' 

"'How  d'ye  know  she's  fascinatin'?'  Liza 
retorted  sharply. 

"'Well,  she's  a  actress  —  an'  they  mostly  air,' 
said  Adam,  wisely. 

"'Much  you  know  about  'em  !'   snapped  Liza. 

"Then  Adam  lifted  one  rheumaticky  foot  off 
the  floor  and  laboriously  crossed  his  legs  in  a 
fashion  intended  to  be  jaunty,  while  he  assumed 
a  mysterious  air  and  answered,  'Oh,  I  dunno  !  I 
guess  most  men  that's  been  around  a  good  deal 
has  had  their  own  experience  with  actresses  — 
they're  real  companionable  ladies.'" 

Ferris  laughed  long  and  loud.  "The  old 
divvil !"  he  said.  "Fancy  the  'actresses'  he 
could  have  met !" 

"Probably  mended  the  trunk-lock  of  a  circus- 
ridin'  lady,  once  upon  a  time,"  commented  Beth 
sharply,  "but  he  had  a  manner  like  what  a  friend 
of  mine  calls  'a  sure-enough  gay  Ontario.'" 

"Was  Liza  disturbed  ?" 

"  She  was  charmed  —  but  she  wouldn't  show 
it  for  worlds,  of  course.  That's  just  it !  She's  as 
'interred'  in  Adam  and  as  anxious  to  marry 
him,  as  she  can  be  !  But  she  won't  admit  it.  And 
he's  —  well,  I  don't  know  about  Adam,  but  I 
guess  he's  pretty  willing  to  bring  his  rheumaticks 


JUST  FOLKS  1 59 

and  settle  in  a  permanent  seat  of  authority  beside 
Liza's  stove  —  but  he  wants  her  to  feel  that  it's 
an  awful  responsibility  for  a  'gay  Ontario'  like 
him  to  undertake  the  sober  state  of  matrimony. 
And  there  they  are  !  Sometimes  I  don't  believe 
they'll  ever  get  married  !" 

Beth's  tone  was  so  maternally  anxious  that 
Ferris  was  convulsed.  "The  concern  those  giddy 
young  lovers  give  you  is  delicious,"  he  said. 

Beth  smiled.  "Does  seem  as  if  I  had  to  deal 
a  lot  with  romance  in  my  'day's  work,'  doesn't 
it?"  she  said.  "  But  I  suppose  I'm  only  finding 
out  what  a  part  it  plays  in  'life  as  it  comes  to  all.' 
I  was  over  at  Mary  Casey's  to-day  and  found  Pa 
has  been  acting  unusually  bad,  even  for  him. 
I'm  afraid  Angela  Ann  won't  stand  it  at  home 
much  longer,  unless  things  get  better  —  and  I 
told  Mary  so." 

" '  I  know,'  she  said.  '  I'm  t'inkin'  that  mesilf , 
an'  it  do  worry  me  mos'  t'  death.  But  what  kin 
I  do  ?  Whin  he  git  so  bad  I  t'ink  I  kin  stan'  no 
more  from  him,  I  haven'  no  more'n  made  up  my 
min'  t'  l'ave  'im,  than  he  do  turn  aroun'  an'  be 
that  foine,  he's  like  the  Lord  Mayor  o'  London  ! 
Sure,  it  do  kape  a  woman  all  bewildered-like.' 
She's  right,  I  guess ;  first  and  last,  the  tender 
passion  do  'kape  a  woman  all  bewildered-like,' 
and  I'm  begining  to  think  we  must  love  the 
bewilderment  —  we  begin  to  seek  it  so  early,  and 
cling  to  it  so  late.     I  guess  it's  what  spices  life  to 


i6o  JUST  FOLKS 

a  woman,  —  clear  to  the  edge  of  the  grave 
—  yes,  and  what  makes  her  keen  about  the 
Beyond." 

In  late  October,  Adam  drew  his  pension; 
and  with  this  lordly  sum  tied  in  an  emptied  to- 
bacco-bag, he  inaugurated  that  brilliant,  inspired 
campaign  which  brought  his  forty-five  years' 
siege  of  Liza  to  a  close.     He  disappeared. 

For  two  evenings  his  place  by  the  stoveward 
side  of  Liza's  table  with  the  red-and- white  checked 
table-cloth,  was  vacant;  and  Liza  "let  on  like" 
she  didn't  note  the  difference.  Then  her  stoicism 
failed. 

"I  reckon,"  she  said  to  Ferris,  "you  better 
see  if  you  can't  find  out  where  that  old  fool  has 
gone." 

"That  I  might  possibly  have  anything  else  to 
do,"  said  Ferris  to  Beth,  "seems  never  to  have 
entered  Liza's  head." 

"You  might  forgive  her  for  that,"  Beth  told 
him,  "when  you  reflect  how  neither  does  it  seem 
to  have  entered  her  head  that  you  can't  go 
straight  and  find  him  if  you  choose." 

"  Instead  of  which,  I  haven't  the  remotest  idea 
where  to  look  for  the  old  doddeky  !" 

"Where  would  a  'fool  critter'  like  Adam  go 
when  he  got  his  pension  ? " 

"On  a  'bust,'  I  suppose  —  but,  heavens! 
there  are  quite   some  places  in  Chicago  where 


JUST  FOLKS  161 

they  are  adept  in  separating  fools  from  their 
money ;  and  I  can't  search  'em  all ! " 

The  next  evening,  Ferris  being  busy  hunting 
Adam,  and  Liza  "havin'  a  fittin',"  Beth  went 
over  to  Henry  Street  for  a  brief  call  on  the 
Caseys.  There  she  told  about  Adam's  disap- 
pearance and  Liza's  anxiety. 

"Whin  a  man  have  got  money  in  his  pockets," 
observed  Pa,  with  an  experienced  air,  "he's 
more  like  t'  be  spindin'  it  on  some  young  skirt 
than  savin'  it  up  fer  an  oF  wan." 

"That's  just  what  he's  doing  —  beyond  a 
doubt!"  said  Beth,  severely.  "But  for  Liza's 
sake,  I  wish  I  knew  where  he's  doing  it ! " 

"He'll  come  home  whin  'tis  all  gon',"  consoled 
Pa  —  who  knew  ! 

"Much  comfort  that  be  to  a  woman  —  the 
poor  t'ing  !"   cried  Mary,  with  hot  sympathy. 

"Theer's  two  kin's  o'  women,"  said  Pa,  puffing 
his  pipe  and  looking  most  oracular.  "Theer's 
thim  that  min  spind  theer  money  on,  an'  theer's 
thim  that  they  go  back  to  whin  the  money's  gon'. 
If  yer  wan  kin'  o'  woman,  ye  can't  be  the  other, 
an'  ye  might's  well  make  the  hist  of  it !" 

"Every  good  woman  would  rather  be  the  kind 
the  men  come  back  to  !"  said  Beth,  quickly  — 
thinking  of  Mary's  comfort  for  the  past,  and  of 
Angela's  outlook  for  the  future. 

Pa   leered  unbelievingly.     "I   guess   they   all 


M 


162  JUST  FOLKS 

do  what  they  kin  !"  he  said.  "An'  thim  that 
fails  as  fascinators,  they  turn  good." 

"That's  a  fine  way  for  you  to  talk  before  your 
wife  —  before   Angela  ! "   cried  Beth,   hotly. 

Pa  shrugged  —  and  retired  from  the  con- 
versation. But  when  Beth  got  up  to  go,  Angela 
went  with  her,  "a  piece." 

"I  seen  that  old  Adam  Spear,"  she  said,  when 
they  were  safely  out  of  the  family  earshot. 

"You  did!     Where?" 

Angela  hesitated.  "I  was  out  last  evening" 
she  said,  "wid  a  fella — " 

"With  what 'fella'?" 

"A  fella  that's  awful  struck  on  me  —  I  met 
him  up  t'  the  Greek's  — " 

"Angela!" 

"I  ain'  goin'  t'  take  no  clo'es  off'n  him," 
Angela  hastened  to  explain,  "but  —  you  heard 
what  Pa  said  !  I  ain'  goin' t'  do  no  wrong,  but  I 
got  t'  have  some  fun,  an'  I'll  l'ave  'em  spind  theer 
money  on  me  if  they  want  to." 

Beth  made  a  mental  note  of  this  confidential 
outburst  for  immediate  action  the  minute  she 
got  Liza's  difficulties  settled. 

"Where  did  you  see  Adam  Spear?"  she 
questioned,  seeming  to  ignore  Angela's  intentions. 

"On  Madison  Street,  in  a  —  in  a  palm  garden." 

"Angela!" 

"  I  didn'  drink  nothin'.  It  was  wan  o'  thim  that 
has  a  vaudeville  show,  an'  I  was  on'y  lookin'. 


JUST  FOLKS  163 

Now,  if  you  go  an  tell  ma,  I'm  goin'  t'  run  away. 
But  if  you  don't,  I'll  tell  you  wheer  it  was. 
He  had  a  girl  wid  him  an'  was  buyin'  beers  fer  her. 
Mebbe  he  might  be  theer  agin." 

"Will  you  go  there  now  and  show  me  the 
place?"   ' 

Yes,  Angela  would.  So  they  went  to  Maxwell 
Street  and  got  Liza,  who  was  crying  softly 
over  her  sewing  when  they  went  in. 

"The  durned  ol'  fool !"  she  said,  wiping  her 
eyes  on  her  apron,  when  Beth  told  her. 

Angela  "showed  the  place,"  and  Liza  went  in 
alone.  No,  she  hadn't  "never  been  in  no  palm 
garden  before,  but  that  didn't  matter  none"  — 
if  Adam  Spear  was  there,  she'd  find  him,  and  if 
he  wasn't,  she  didn't  "  fear  no  other  fella's 
grabbin'"  her. 

Beth  and  Angela  waited  outside  —  walking 
up  and  down,  a  little  distance  away,  so  as  not 
to  attract  attention.  In  a  few  minutes  they  saw 
Liza  come  out  —  with  Adam,  holding  on  to  him 
with  a  determined  clutch. 

"Let's  go  home  a  different  way,"  said  Beth; 
"they  won't  miss  us." 

Two  evenings  later,  Adam  was  permanently 
installed  by  Liza's  stove,  and  had  so  far  recovered 
from  the  sheepishness  immediately  succeeding 
his  capture,  as  to  be  a  bit  swaggering  about  his 
adventure  —  to  Liza's  unconcealed  delight ! 


X 


In  the  Casey  kitchen,  shrouded  in  the  gloom 
of  a  late  November  afternoon,  Midget  and  Mollie 
Casey  were  "  playin'  school  "  with  Rachel  and 
Rosie  Rubovitz.  It  had  been  a  sodden,  rainy 
day,  and  the  air  was  full  of  chill  dampness.  On 
the  kitchen  floor,  and  scarcely  distinguishable 
from  it  in  color,  rolled  Abey  Rubovitz,  hero  of 
the  pure-milk  crusade ;  and  about  him,  in  a  nice, 
anxious,  motherly  way,  toddled  wee  Annie  Casey, 
"mindin'"  him  with  all  the  superiority  of  her 
two  and  a  half  years. 

One  lid  of  the  big  cook-stove  was  off,  and  from 
the  hole  protruded  a  long  piece  of  rotten  sidewalk 
plank,  evidently  acquired  by  Johnny  from  some 
place  where  a  new  wooden  walk  was  being  laid, 
and  as  evidently  not  chopped  by  Johnny  into 
stove-lengths,  as  directed  by  his  ma.  In  her 
mother's  absence,  Midget  had  replenished  the 
fire  with  this  stick,  which  she  could  neither  break 
nor  poke  into  the  stove,  and  it  stuck  out, 
smoldering  and  giving  forth  a  depressing  odor. 

The  school  was  not  going  well.  Mollie  was 
"bein'  teacher,"  and  the  Rubovitzes  declared 
she  gave  Midget  the  littlest  and  easiest  words 

164 


JUST  FOLKS  165 

and  sums,  to  keep  her  at  the  head  of  the  class  — 
which,  truth  to  tell,  was  a  novel  place  for  Midget. 
Protest  against  Mollie's  despotic  rule  having 
failed,  the  Rubovitzes  took  another  tack. 

"Id's  cold  by  your  house,"  said  Rachel, 
looking  scornfully  at  the   smoldering  sidewalk. 

"I  bet  yourn's  colder,"  answered  Mollie 
with  chill  dignity,  going  to  the  stove  and  trying  in 
vain  to  poke  the  plank  in  far  enough  to  admit 
of  the  lid's  going  on. 

"It  aind't,  iss  it,  Rachel?"  Rosie  chimed 
in  shrilly.     "Ve  got  two  stoves  goin'  !" 

"I  niver  seen  'em,"  said  Mollie,  tauntingly. 

"Ve  joost  a  new  von  fer  our  frondt  room  got," 
cried  Rachel,  waxing  in  her  excitement  more 
Yiddish  than  usual. 

Mollie  and  Midget  looked  at  each  other. 
There  was  sad,  shamed  silence  for  a  second,  but 
for  a  second  only.  Then,  "We're  goin'  t'  git 
wan  fer  our  front  room,  too,"  said  Mollie,  bravely. 

"Ah,  you  ain'  got  no  furn'ture  by  your  frondt 
room,"  reminded  Rosie. 

"But  we're  fixin'  t'  git  it  —  better'n  yourn, 
too,"  answered  Midget,  coming  to  Mollie's 
rescue. 

Rachel  and  Rosie  didn't  take  any  stock  in  what 
the  Caseys  were  "fixin"'  to  do;  the  Caseys  were 
always  and  always  "fixin"'  to  do  something  and 
never  doing  it.  But  children  think  less  of  that 
than  do  other  people ;  for  are  not   they  them- 


166  JUST  FOLKS 

selves  always  doing  the  same  ?  So  Rachel's 
retort  passed  this  point  by.  "Anyway,"  she 
said,  "ve  am'  got  no  brudder  by  de  bad  boys' 
vorkhouse,  like  you  got !  An'  my  pa  an'  my 
ma  says,  s'posin'  our  Herman  was  like  your 
Mikey,  dey  vould  vish  to  be  dead  first." 

"Our  Mikey's  all  right,  an'  you  can  just  l'ave 
'im  be!"  cried  Mollie,  angrily.  "We'd  ruther 
have  'im  be  in  de  bean  house  than  have  him  be 
a  Sheeny  ! " 

"Sure  we  would  !"    echoed  Midget,  dutifully. 

"Rachel,"  saidRosie,  "ve  should  to  go  home." 

"G'wan  !"  jeered  Mollie,  "that's  like  a  Sheeny. 
Irish'd  stay  an'  fight." 

"Micks  is  cheap  fightin'  peoples,  an'  you  got 
nodding  !  Jewss  is  fer  peace  und  gettin'  along. 
Come,  Rosie."  And  snatching  the  astonished 
Abey  off  the  floor,  she  took  her  leave,  slamming 
the  door  behind  her. 

"I'll  pay  thim  fer  that  —  fer  what  they  said 
about  our  Mikey,"  declared  Mollie,  ready  to 
cry  with  rage. 

"Ah,"  comforted  Midget,  philosophically,  "wot 
do  we  care  wot  Sheenies  say  ?  What  I'm  carin' 
'bout  is,  will  Aunt  Maggie  lind  Ma  a  half  a  dollar 
to  buy  us  some  supper  wid  ?  Here  she  come 
now,"  she  finished,  as  footsteps  were  heard  out- 
side the  back  door.  But  an  instant  later  a  loud 
knock  on  the  door  startled  them  both. 

Mollie  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it.     When 


JUST  FOLKS  167 

she  saw  who  was  there,  an  expression  of  frank 
disgust  came  over  her  shrewd  little  face.  "Ma 
ain't  to  home,"  she  said,  without  waiting  for  the 
man  to  speak. 

The  man  viewed  Mollie  with  no  more  favor 
than  she  eyed  him  with.  "Well,"  he  said  inso- 
lently, "  I  ain't  callin'  on  yer  ma  !  Didn'  she 
leave  no  money  fer  the  stove  ?" 

Mollie,  who  was  holding  the  door  only  partly 
open  and  standing  staunchly  in  the  breach,  cast 
one  anxious  look  behind  her  as  if  to  measure  the 
chances  of  the  stove's  "bein'  took"  against  her 
protest.     "No,"  she  said,  "  she  didn'." 

There  was  nothing  apologetic  in  Mollie's  tone 
or  manner;  rather  was  it  resentful.  The  stove 
man  was  mad.  "You  haven'  paid  in  three 
weeks,"  he  said  sharply,  "an'  my  instructions  is 
to  git  paymint  to-day  er  git  the  stove." 

Midget  began  to  cry.  "Shut  up,  you!" 
Mollie  ordered,  looking  at  her  scathingly.  Then 
she  turned  again  to  the  man.  "How  kin  we  pay 
wot  we  ain't  got  ?"    she  demanded  of  him. 

"That's  no  business  o'  mine,"  he  retorted. 
"My  instructions  is  t'  git — " 

"You  said  it  wanst,  an'  wanst  is  enough," 
Mollie  interrupted  impudently. 

"Mollie,  don't  sass  'im!"  pleaded  Midget, 
tugging  fearfully  at  her  belligerent  sister's  elbow. 

The  collector  for  a  Blue  Island  Avenue 
emporium  that  sold  furniture  and  stoves  "be  aisy 


168  JUST  FOLKS 

paymints"  had  had  a  hard  day;  everywhere 
he  went,  tramping  from  back  door  to  back  door, 
up  and  down  steep,  dirty  stairs,  he  had  met 
with  the  same  story  —  no  work,  no  money. 
Some  had  entreated  him ;  some  had  abused  him. 
He  was  callous  to  both  kinds  of  treatment, 
but  he  was  not  callous  to  what  the  boss  would 
say  when  he  got  back  to  the  store.  He  didn't 
believe  all  these  people  were  as  poor  as  they  said 
they  were.  He  believed  they  were  lying  to  him. 
But  lying  to  his  boss  wouldn't  do  him  any  good. 
He'd  lose  his  job  —  that's  what!  "I  bet," 
he  charged  angrily,  "you  got  money  in  the 
house  an'  won't  pay  it !" 

"We  ain't,"  shrilled  Mollie. 

"Ixcipt  th'  insur'nce,"  put  in  Midget. 

The  collector  knew  all  about  the  burial  insur- 
ance of  the  poor  —  had,  in  fact,  once  been  a 
collector  of  that,  and  often  wished  now  that  he 
was  back  at  it ;  for  the  poor  folk  would  pay  their 
insurance  money  if  they  could  pay  anything  at 
all,  even  if  they  had  to  starve  to  do  it.  "I  told 
ye!"  he  cried,  when  Midget  mentioned  the 
insurance. 

But  Mollie's  scorn  knew  no  bounds.  "I  bet 
you'd  take  the  buryin'  money  off  of  us,"  she  al- 
most sobbed,  "an'  l'ave  us  be  buried  be  the 
county — " 

"You  ain't  needin'  no  fun'ral,  that  I  kin  see," 
the  man  answered  unfeelingly.     "An'  'twon't  do 


JUST  FOLKS  169 

you  no  good  to  have  a  fun'ral  that  you  don'  need 
an'  lose  a  stove  that  you  do  need.  You  better 
gi'  me  them  nickels  you  got  laid  by,  an'  mebbe 
when  I  show  'em  to  the  boss  he'll  leave  you  go 
another  week  before  he  takes  the  stove.  Come, 
now,  are  you  goin'  t'  give  'em  to  me,  or  ain't 
you  ?" 

"We  ain't !"    said  Mollie,  promptly. 

"Then  you  kin  tell  yerma  that  I'll  call  to-morrer 
fer  the  las'  time." 

"To-morrer's  Sunday,"  ventured  Midget,  catch- 
ing gratefully  at  that  saving  straw. 

"Well,  then,  Monday;  an'  if  she  don't  pay 
then,  I'll  have  the  men  here  in  an  hour  to  take 
the  stove."  And  with  that  he  *was  gone,  into 
the  black  November  murk  of  the  oozy  yard 
and  the  narrow  passageway. 

Mollie  made  a  saucy  face  after  him  when 
the  door  had  closed,  but  it  was  the  merest 
bravado;  her  poor  little  mouth  was  trembling 
pitifully  at  the  corners.  "I  wish  Ma'd  come," 
she  said  forlornly,  poking  again  at  the  smoldering 
sidewalk. 

It  was  very  black  in  the  kitchen  now,  and 
Mollie  felt  her  way  to  the  sink  and  reached  up 
for  the  lamp  on  the  iron  bracket.  She  struck  a 
match,  but  the  wick  wouldn't  light;  she  shook 
the  glass  lamp.  "This's  impty!"  she  said. 
"Git  the  oil-can,  Midget." 

Midget  fetched  the  oil-can    from  the  closet, 


i7o  JUST  FOLKS 

shaking  it  as  she  came.  "Not  a  drop,"  she  said 
forlornly. 

So  Mollie  lighted  matches  and  hunted  till  she 
found  a  bit  of  candle;  she  had  just  set  this, 
feebly  flickering,  on  the  kitchen  table,  when  the 
back  door  opened  and  Dewey  came  in.  Dewey 
had  been  christened  William  Francis,  but  re- 
christened,  in  deference  to  his  warlike  proclivi- 
ties, after  the  hero  of  Manila  Bay.  In  the  dim 
light,  the  other  children  could  see  something 
with  him  and,  knowing  Dewey  of  old,  Mollie 
promptly  asked,  "Whose  dog?" 

"Mine,"  said  Dewey,  with  a  fine  proprietary 
air. 

"Wait  till  Pa  see  'im  !"    reminded  Mollie. 

Dewey  bridled.  "I  s'pose  ye  kin  hardly 
wait ! "  he  charged. 

"I  bet  the  dog'll  l'ave  of  'is  own  will  when  he 
see  what  kind  of  a  place  ye've  brought  'im  to," 
tittered  Midget. 

Dewey  looked  at  the  candle  and  at  the  side- 
walk in  the  stove.     "Wheer's  Ma  ?"   he  said. 

"Gon'  t'  Aunt  Maggie's  t'  see  won'  she  lind  'er 
a  half  a  dollar  fer  some  supper,"  Mollie  told  him. 

"I  bet  she  don't,"  opined  Dewey,  bitterly. 

"I  bet  she  don't  neither,"  agreed  Mollie. 

And  just  then  the  door  opened  and  Mary 
Casey  came  in.  Four  pairs  of  childish  eyes 
turned  to  her  in  eager  questioning.  It  was  use- 
less to  ask,  but  a  feeble  little  question  slipped 


JUST  FOLKS  171 

almost  unaware  from  Midget.  "Wouldn'  she 
lind  ye  nothin'  ?"   she  asked. 

Mary  was  hanging  up  her  shawl  and  "fas- 
cinator" on  a  hook  near  the  door.  "No,"  she 
said,  and  the  children  wondered  to  see  her  so 
dispirited.  Mollie  and  Midget  dreaded  to  tell 
her  about  the  stove  man. 

"Was  annybody  here?"  Mary  Casey  asked; 
she  had  gone  at  once  to  the  fire  and  was  over- 
hauling it  from  its  foundations. 

Mollie  looked  at  Midget  and  Midget  looked 
at  Mollie.  "The  Rubovitzes  was  here,"  said 
Midget.  Then,  by  divine  intuition,  Mollie 
added,   "They  made  shame  o'  our  Mikey — " 

Mary  Casey  straightened  up  ;  her  eyes  flashed ; 
dejection  had  gone  in  a  twinkling  before  righteous 
ire.  "Thim  Sheenies  !"  she  said  wrathfully. 
"If  thim  little  divils  comes  in  here  anny  more, 
I'm  goin'  t'  t'row  water  on  thim  —  an'  if  I  do, 
it'll  be  the  first  that  iver  r'ached  thim,  I'll  bet !" 

The  children  giggled.  They  enjoyed  the  thrust 
at  the  Rubovitzes,  and  they  were  relieved  at  their 
mother's  return  to  her  normal  mood;  they 
weren't  used  to  her  despondent. 

When  she  had  got  the  fire  burning,  Mary  set 
on  a  saucepan  half  full  of  water,  and  went  into 
the  pantry  and  brought  out  a  paper  sack  that 
was  nearly  empty;  in  it  were  about  two  cup- 
fuls  of  yellow  corn  meal. 

"Oh,  Ma!"    wailed  the  children  in  chorus. 


172  JUST.  FOLKS 

They  hated  corn-meal  mush  at  any  time,  but 
they  hated  it  for  supper  most  of  all. 

"Well,"  she  answered  them  patiently,  "what 
kin  I  do  ?  Unless  we  wait  an'  see  will  Ang'la 
Ann  git  home  pritty  soon  an'  bring  her  wages  ? 
But  she  may  be  havin'  t'  work  late  to-night  — " 

It  was  Mollie  who  was  struck  by  a  bright 
idea.  "I  know,  Ma,"  she  said.  "L'ave  us 
take  the  insur'nce  money  !  He  won'  come  fer  it 
no  more  to-night,  an'  ye  kin  pay  it  back  whin 
Ang'la  Ann  come  home." 

"Sure,"  cried  Mary,  brightening,  "I  niver 
t'ought  o'  that.  Ye've  the  gran'  hid  on  ye, 
Mollie  Casey  —  ye  take  after  yer  pa." 

She  carried  the  despised  and  rejected  meal 
back  into  the  pantry,  and  down  from  a  high 
shelf  she  brought  a  handleless,  noseless  pitcher. 
"Thirty-five  cints,"  she  said,  counting  out  the 
nickels.     "Git  a  little  oil  — " 

"An'  a  jelly  roll !"   cried  Dewey. 

"An'  a  lemon  pie  !"   begged  Midget. 

"An'  some  fried  eggs!  An'  some  bologny!" 
Mollie  entreated. 

Mary  smiled.  "Thim  nickels  is  not  rubber" 
she  said;  "they  won'  stretch  over  no  lemon 
pies  an'  fried  eggs.  But  ye  kin  buy  a  jelly  roll 
—  git  yisterday's,  fer  half  price  —  an'  some  pita- 
ties,  an'  two  loaves  o'  bread  fer  a  nickel — " 

"Oh,"  Mollie  begged,  "can't  we  git  it  frish — 
jus'  this  wanst  ?" 


JUST  FOLKS  173 

Mary  considered.  "  If  ye  do,  ye  won'  have 
enough  fer  bologny,"  she  said.  "  Well,  away 
wid  ye,  an'  do  the  bist  ye  kin." 

Happy,  excited,  arguing,  the  children  started ; 
but  at  the  door  Midget  hung  back,  and  when 
the  other  two  had  gone  out,  she  closed  the  door 
after  them  and  stood  with  her  back  against  it, 
looking  at  her  mother  with  distress  in  her  big, 
dark  eyes. 

"What  ails  ye,  child  ?"    asked  Mary. 

Midget  hesitated  a  moment.  Then,  "The 
man  was  here  t'  c'lect  fer  the  stove,"  she  said, 
"an'  he's  goin'  t'  take  it  off  of  us  Monday  unless 
we  pay."  And,  with  that,  she  opened  the  door 
quickly  and  went  out  after  the  others. 

When  Midget  was  gone,  her  mother  stood 
staring  into  the  gloom  of  the  kitchen.  On  her 
face  was  an  expression  that  Midget  would  not 
have  understood.  Darkness  and  cold  and  hun- 
ger were  familiar  to  Mary  Casey;  familiar  to 
her,  too,  was  the  threat  of  being  "set  out"  for 
non-payment  of  rent  and  having  her  "things 
took"  for  failure  to  meet  payments  which, 
somehow,  were  never  "aisy"  except  in  her  buoy- 
ant mind  at  the  exciting  time  of  the  purchase. 
She  seldom  gave  way  before  any  of  these  things  ; 
but  to-night  — 

Her  attention  was  attracted  by  wee  Annie 
climbing    toward    the    candle    on    the    kitchen 


174  JUST  FOLKS 

table.  "No,  no,  darlin' !"  she  said,  and  caught 
the  little  thing  up  in  her  arms  and  held  her 
tight.  "No,  no!"  repeated  Mary,  crooningly. 
With  the  child  hugged  to  her  breast,  she  sat 
down  close  by  the  threatened  stove,  where  now 
the  damp  sidewalk  was  burning — smoking  miser- 
ably, it  is  true,  but  giving  out  a  little  heat. 
Annie  was  cold,  and  the  warmth  of  her  mother's 
embrace  was  grateful,  so  she  lay  quiet.  And 
presently  something  dropped  on  Annie's  face  — 
something  warm  and  wet.  Baby  as  she  was, 
Annie  knew;  the  first  thing  in  this  world  we 
know  is  tears.  She  put  up  a  little  hand  and 
touched  her  mother's  rough  cheek.  "Pitty, 
pitty,"  she  said;  "nice,  nice."  Mary  caught 
up  the  caressing  baby  hand  and  covered  it  with 
kisses.  "Nobody  know  what  ye  mane  t'  yer 
ma,"  she  whispered  to  the  baby;  "no  wan  — 
not  avin  thim  that's  been  mothers  thimsilves, 
it  seem." 

The  back  door  opened,  and  for  an  instant  a 
man  stood  framed  in  the  doorway;  then  he 
came  inside  and  closed  the  door. 

"What's  the  matter  wid  the  light  ?"  he  said. 
He  seemed  cross  at  finding  his  home  so  dark. 

"We've  no  oil,"  his  wife  replied. 

Pa  hung  his  hat  on  a  peg  by  the  door,  took 
off  his  coat  and  shoes,  and  drew  up  a  chair  pre- 
paratory to  putting  his  feet  in  the  oven.  "I'm 
goin'  t'  move   out  o'  this    shanty,"    he   said  in 


JUST  FOLKS  175 

a  disgusted  tone,  "an'  git  wan  wheer  there's 
gas. 

"'Twould  be  all  the  same,"  his  wife  rejoined 
wearily;  "the  gas'd  niver  be  paid  —  we'd  al- 
ways be  gittin'  it  took  off  of  us." 

Pa  said  nothing.  "Git  anny  work  to-day  ?" 
Mary  asked  him  presently. 

"No,  but  a  man's  after  tellin'  me  of  a  gran' 
job  I  kin  get  on  Monda'." 

"Monda'!"  cried  Mary,  bitterly.  "To-mor- 
rer !  It's  been  to-morrer,  or  Monda'  or  nixt 
wake,  fer  twinty  years  !" 

"Stone-cuttin',"  observed  Pa,  gravely,  "have 
been  a  bad  trade  fer  twinty  years.  What  wid 
this  here  new-fangled  cimint,  art'  wid  bosses  im- 
ployin'  scabs  (which  I  c'd  niver  be,  though  I'd 
staarve  !),  'tis  a  bad  trade  fer  anny  man." 

Mary  had  been  hearing  this  arraignment  of 
the  stone-cutting  industry  for  twenty  years. 
"Theer  ain'  no  law,"  she  said  now,  "compellin' 
ye  t'  cut  stone  er  do  nothin'." 

Pa's  tone  as  he  replied  was  full  of  severity. 
"  Stone-cuttin's  me  trade,"  he  said  with  dignity, 
"an'  I  ain'  got  no  caard  to  no  other  trade. 
You'd  have  me  work  at  some  trade  I  ain'  got 
no  caard  to,  I  suppose  ?  Well,  I'll  not-  be  a 
darty  scab  fer  anny  wan  !  I  got  better  pride 
ner  that !     'Tis  agin  my  princ'ples." 

"Pride  ?"  echoed  Mary,  scornfully.  "Seems 
a   quare  pride  whin   a   man   can't  support  his 


176  JUST  FOLKS 

fam'ly  because  he's  proud  —  has  t'  l'ave  thim 
take  charity  because  he's  so  proud  —  has  t'  sind 
his  childern  t'  work  the  minute  they  kin  lie  t' 
the  law  about  their  ages  (an'  git  quare  in  the 
hid,  like  poor  Mikey,  gittin'  th'  paint-poisonin' 
in  that  wall-paper  place  whin  he  was  elivin') 
because  he  've  such  gran'  princ'ples.  Seem  like 
a  quare  pride  in  a  man  that'll  l'ave  his  wife  go 
to  her  rilatives  t'  beg  the  loan  of  a  half  a  dollar 
to  buy  supper  fer  his  kids,  an'  not  git  it  because 
her  folks  say  they're  tired  o'  feedin'  her  loafer! 
Quare  pride  in  a  man,  I  call  that !" 

Pa  took  this  arraignment  with  a  gentle  resig- 
nation. "'Tain't  in  Maggie  ner  Pete  Kavanagh 
t'  understan'  me  an'  my  princ'ples,"  he  said. 
"No,  ner  in  you,  nayther,  I'm  thinkin'.  But 
I'm  not  su'prised.  Min  wid  princ'ples  has  niver 
been  understood  by  theer  f am'lies  —  ner  by  the 
world.  The  world  have  always  gone  haard  wid 
the  best  min  —  have  always  driven  thim  t' 
drink  wid  its  onfeelin'ness." 

"If  ye're  a  sample  o'  thim,  it  was  aisy  drivin', 
I  bet,"  was  his  wife's  retort. 

Pa  smiled  good-naturedly  at  this  reference  to 
his  "failin'."  "I  wish  some  wan'd  drive  me  up 
to  a  couple  o'  hot  drinks  right  now,"  he  said. 
"I'm  that  cold,  I'm  all  rheumaticky." 

"Ye'll  be  colder  nixt  wake,"  she  hastened  to 
tell  him.  "The  man  was  here  to-day  t'  take 
the  stove  —  it's  goin'  Monda'." 


JUST  FOLKS  177 

"Tis  nothin'  of  the  sort,"  assured  Pa,  grandly. 
"Nixt  wake  I'm  goin'  t'  pay  the  whole  balance 
on  the  stove  an'  see  'bout  gittin'  wan  for  the 
parlie."  And  his  tone  was  so  confident,  his 
manner  so  inspiring  that,  as  he  went  on  and  on, 
unfolding  to  Mary  what  he  meant  to  do  "nixt 
wake,"  she  fell  once  more  into  the  easy  hope- 
fulness that  had  sustained  her  for  twenty  years. 
Providence  develops  in  each  of  its  creatures, 
great  and  small,  those  qualities  that  they  most 
need  to  keep  them  alive;  and  in  Mary  Casey, 
Providence  had  developed  hope  and  patience  — 
perhaps  they  are  the  same  thing  !  Under  the 
"hope-begettingness"  of  Pa's  talk,  Mary  gradu- 
ally lost  her  irony,  and  by  andby,  holding  the 
sleeping  child  in  her  lap,  she  opened  her  heart 
to  Pa  about  the  tears  that  had  been  wee  Annie's 
lullaby. 

"I  was  to  see  Maggie  to-day,"  she  said,  "an' 
she's  tur'ble  put  out  wid  me,  'count  o'  the  — 
the  new  wan.  She  wouldn'  lind  me  no  money 
t'  buy  supper,  not  avin  whin  I  promised  her  I'd 
pay  it  back  out  o'  Ang'la  Ann's  wages  to-morrer. 
An'  after  I  was  theer,  I  wint  over  t'  the  charity 
place  wheer  they've  helped  us  sometimes,  t'  see 
could  the  young  lady  that's  there  maybe  help 
me  t'  git  a  few  little  clo'es.  An'  she  says,  'I 
mus'  say,  Mrs.  Casey,'  she  says,  'it's  very  dis- 
couragin'.  You  wid  all  the  trouble  you  got  — 
not  able  t'  kape  the  sivin  childern  you  got  from 


178  JUST  FOLKS 

starvin',  an'  a  new  wan  comin'  —  I  mus'  say  it's 
very  discouragin'.'  I  dunno  if  she'll  try  t'  do 
annythin'  fer  me  —  she  seemed  tur'ble  provoked. 
Seem  like  everybody  do  be  blamin'  me,  an'  I'm 
sure  whin  I  t'ink  o'  what  it's  comin'  to,  I  ought 
t'  be  weepin'  tears  o'  sorrer  fer  the  poor  little 
t'ing.  But  I  got  that  foolish  mother  heart  in 
me  that  kape  -singin'  wid  joy  t'  think  how  lovely 
it'll  be  to  have  a  new  wan  to  cuddle  an'  set  store 
by.  This'll  be  the  tinth  time  I've  known  the 
feel  o'  thim  little  searchin'  han's  on  me  brist, 
but  seems  like  I  niver  looked  for'ard  no  more'n  I 
do  now  to  the  t'rill  of  it.  I  don'  git  manny 
t'rills  in  my  life  —  seems  kind  o'  hard  folks  that 
has  none  o'  the  pains  to  bear  should  grudge  me 
that  wan!" 

Pa  was  indignant.  "I'll  have  none  o'  theer 
baby  clo'es  !"  he  cried,  "an'  none  o'  Maggie 
Kavanagh's  adwice  !  I  intind  t'  raise  this  new 
wan  mesilf.  I  ain'  got  a  child  yit  that  suit  me, 
but  I'm  goin'  t'  take  a  han'  airly  wid  this  new 
wan  an'  git  him  started  right." 

Mary  ignored  the  implied  fault  with  her  train- 
ing. The  candle  light  was  very  dim,  and  in  it 
the  grime  and  stubble  on  Pa's  face  showed 
hardly  at  all ;  and  his  voice  had  the  same  Irish 
sweetness  it  had  had  years  before  when  Pa  was 
not  yet  Pa,  and  had  come  to  court  her  in  her 
fine,  comfortable  home  where  she  was  "workin' 
out"  —  to  woo  her  away  with  his  soft  words, 


JUST  FOLKS  179 

and  the  look  in  his  big  blue  eyes,  and  the  dimples 
that  played  round  his  mouth  when  he  smiled ; 
with  his  glowing  word-pictures  of  the  "little 
home"  he  was  going  to  make  for  her;  with  his 
blushing  hints  about  the  children  that  might 
some  day  be  theirs ;  with  the  awkward  caresses 
of  his  big  stone-cutter's  hands.  She  had  gone 
gladly,  full  of  sweet,  fluttering  hopes  —  gone 
from  her  comfortable  "place"  to  a  home  that 
was  little,  indeed,  and  that  grew  more  and  more 
squalid  as  each  year  went  over  their  heads. 
And  she  had  never  been  sorry  for  going  —  not 
even  in  the  blackest  hours  of  her  children's 
want  and  her  husband's  insufficiency.  Always 
something  kept  her  from  looking  back  regretfully 
—  always  something  kept  her  expectant.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  memory  —  and  the  hope  —  of 
those  tiny  baby  hands  searching,  groping  toward 
her  breast.  Perhaps  it  was  the  memory  —  and 
the  hope  —  of  times  like  this,  when  her  winsome 
Irish  lad  came  back  to  her  for  a  few  tender 
moments.  .  .  .  She  heard  the  footsteps  of  the 
returning  children  coming  along  the  board  walk, 
and  as  she  rose  to  lay  baby  Annie  on  the  bed, 
she  stooped  over  and  kissed  Pa  and  whispered, 
"  Ye're  glad  fer  the  new  wan  —  ain't  you,  Patsy, 
b'y?" 

"I  am  that,"  he  answered  her,  holding  her 
cheek  for  a  moment  close  to  his  own,  "an'  I'm 
goin'  t'  do  fine  by  'im." 


i8o  JUST  FOLKS 

Then  the  door  opened  and  the  three  children 
came  trooping  noisily  in.  They  dumped  their 
purchases  on  the  table  and  began  tearing  open 
the  packages.  Mary  took  up  the  oil-can  and 
was  about  to  fill  the  lamp,  when  her  glance  fell 
on  something  Mollie  was  leading  by  a  string. 
"Fer  the  love  o'  Hiven,  what's  that?"  cried 
Mary. 

Pridefully  Mollie  responded,  "'Tis  a  hin." 

"Wheefd  ye  git  it }" 

"Off  a  b'y  in  the  alley,  fer  tin  cints;  he  said 
'twas  a  fine  layer,  an'  we  t'ought  it'd  be  gran' 
t'  have  frish  iggs  iv'ry  day." 

Mary  was  dubious,  but  she  hadn't  the  heart 
to  cloud  the  children's  hopefulness.  "Well,  I 
dunno,"  she  said,  "but  ye  kin  try.  What'd  ye 
give  up  t'  git  it  —  the  jelly  roll  ?" 

"No  —  the  pitaties." 

Mary  laughed.  "  Fer  the  love  of  !"  she  cried ; 
"ye  can't  live  on  bologny  an'  jelly  roll  an'  a  hin 
behint  the  stove." 

"Well,"  said  Mollie,  with  cheerful  resignation, 
"we  couldn'  fin'  that  boy  now  no  more,  an'  git 
the  dime  back." 

"All  right  —  I  don'  keer;  ye  kin  tie  up  yer 
hin  an'  see  what'll  she  do  t'  take  the  place  o' 
pitaties." 

It  was  while  Mollie  was  tethering  her  sorry- 
looking  fowl  to  a  stove  leg  that  Pa  first  noticed 
Dewey's  dog.     "Another  dog  ?"  he  said.    "D'ye 


JUST  FOLKS  181 

ixpict  him  t'  lay  too  ?  Didn'  I  tell  you  I'm 
tired  o'  supportin'  dogs  ?  Maybe  ye'll  tell  me 
ye  bought  him  fer  sausage  ?" 

Pa's  tone  was  scathing,  and,  fearing  harm  to 
his  pup,  Dewey  decided  to  offer  him  the  cold 
hospitality  of  the  back  yard.  "Here,  Togo, 
Togo,"  he  called  sullenly. 

"What's  that?"  cried  Pa.  "Togo?  Togo? 
I'll  have  no  dog  in  my  house  called  Togo  !  Thim 
Jappynase  is  haythins  —  they  belave  nothin'  at 
all." 

"The  Roosians  is  Sheenies,"  retorted  Dewey, 
who  waged  a  perennial  war  with  the  "Roosians" 
in  the  street  and  at  school. 

"Yer  an  ignyrammus  !"  said  Pa.  "The  rale 
Roosians  is  Cath'lics,  same's  yersilf.  These  here 
Roosians  on  Hinry  Strate  was  drove  out  o' 
Rossia  fer  beiri*  Sheenies  —  same's  they  ought  t' 
be  drove  out  o'  iv'ry  place." 

"Well,"  muttered  Dewey,  "I  can't  call  'im 
no  Roosian  name,  because  I  can't  pernounce 
none  of  'em." 

"You  can't,  can't  you  ?"  Pa  thundered 
wrathfully.  "Very  well,  thin  —  ye  kin  call  him 
an  Amurican  name,  I  guess.  Jarge  Washin'ton's 
a  good  enough  name  fer  anny  dog,  I  guess." 

"Theer,  theer,"  said  Mary,  pacifically,  cutting 
off  a  piece  of  bologna,  "you  take  Jarge  Wash- 
in'ton  an'  kape  out  o'  the  way  a  bit  till  yer  Pa's 
ofHnded  princ'ples  kin  raycover." 


182  JUST  FOLKS 

Dewey  took  the  sausage  and  was  making  for 
the  door  with  "Jarge"  when  there  came  a  rap 
upon  it. 

"Come  in  !"  said  Pa.  And  the  visitor  came 
in.  He  was  a  small,  withered-looking,  oldish 
man ;  his  skin  had  a  curious  parchment  look 
and  was  almost  the  shade  of  his  clay-color 
derby.  He  wore  a  brown  plaid  suit  and  a  crim- 
son crochet  tie,  and  carried  a  book  agent's  port- 
folio. The  little  man's  movements  were  brisk, 
his  manner  was  breezy. 

"Good  evening,"  he  said  as  he  came  in, 
"good  evening.  Have  I,"  bowing  to  Pa,  "the 
honor  to  address  Mr.  Casey  ?" 

Pa  admitted  that  he  had.  "Won't  ye  come 
in  ?"   he  invited,  and  set  a  chair. 

"Thank  you,  sir  —  thank  you  ;  I  will !  And 
is  this  your  fine  little  family,  Mr.  Casey  ?" 

"Part  of  'em,"  said  Pa ;  "the  rist's  not  home 
yit." 

"Well,"  said  the  agent,  "I'm  sure  it's  a  family 
for  any  man  to  be  proud  of." 

Pa  shrugged.  "Theer  well  enough,  but  theer's 
none  o'  thim  as  smart  as  I  hoped  they  would  be." 

"Ah  !"  cried  the  little  agent,  eagerly,  "that's 
the  proud,  ambitious  father,  Mr.  Casey.  You 
aspire  so  high  for  them,  it's  hard  for  them  to 
reach  your  fond  expectations.  That's  just  pre- 
cisely why  I  called,  Mr.  Casey  —  just  pre-cisely 
why  I  called.     I  know  it's  a  little  late  for  a  busi- 


JUST  FOLKS  183 

ness  call,  but  I  always  like  to  catch  the  gentle- 
man of  the  house  when  he's  at  home  for  supper. 
One  of  your  children,  Mr.  Casey  —  this  one,  I 
think,"  laying  his  hand  on  Dewey's  shoulder, 
"sent  a  postal  to  the  publisher  of  our  glorious 
paper,  the  Daily  Mercury,  answering  an  adver- 
tisement which  said :  '  Send  a  postal,  and  get  a 
book  telling  you  how  to  obtain  a  grand  educa- 
tion—'" 

"That  ain'  what  it  said  !"  objected  Dewey. 
"It  had  a  pitcher  of  battle  ships  blowin'  up,  an' 
it  said,  'Sind  a  postal  an'  git  a  book  tellin'  all 
about  the  Jappynase  war.'" 

"So  it  did  !"  chirped  the  agent,  "so  it  did  ! 
I  remember  !  One  of  the  ads  read  just  that  way. 
Well,  your  fine  boy,  Mr.  Casey,  sent  a  postal, 
and  our  publisher  says  to  me,  says  he:  'You'd 
better  see  that  Mr.  Casey  and  tell  him  about 
our  wonderful  offer.  He's  evidently  a  smart 
man,  or  he  wouldn't  have  a  boy  like  that.'  You 
see,  Mr.  Casey,  we  have  a  new  Grand  Universal 
Cyclopaedia  of  World  Knowledge,  in  twenty- 
seven  volumes,  giving  complete,  accurate,  au- 
thoritative, up-to-date  information  on  twenty- 
three  thousand  subjects.  Think  of  it !  Suppose 
you  send  your  boy  to  a  university,  Mr.  Casey. 
What  does  he  get  ?  At  the  most,  four  studies  a 
year  —  sixteen  studies  in  a  four-years'  course  — 
at  the  cost  of  hundreds  of  dollars  —  yes,  thou- 
sands !    Now,  for  fifty  cents  down,   and  fifty 


184  JUST  FOLKS 

cents  a  week  for  one  little  year  —  think  of  it ! 

—  we  will  give  him  an  education  in  twenty-three 
thousand  subjects  !" 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  eager  interest  in 
Pa's  face,  and  the  agent  took  out  his  fountain- 
pen  —  for  the  joy  of  writing  with  which  in  the 
presence  of  his  awe-struck  family  Pa  would,  had 
the  agent  but  known  it,  have  signed  any  paper 
that  could  have  been  presented  to  him.  Pa 
reached  for  the  pen,  but  Mary  tugged  at  his 
elbow  and  whispered  in  his  ear.  Nodding  to  her 
to  reassure  her,  Pa  said  to  the  agent,  "Would 
it  be  convanyant  t'  git  the  first  paymint  on 
Monda',  sir?" 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Casey  —  most  certainly." 
Pa  looked  at  Mary  as  if  to  shame  her  for  her 
doubts,  and  began  the  laborious  business  of 
signing  his  name. 

"There  !"  said  the  agent,  when  Pa's  cramped 
fingers  laid  the  pen  carefully  down  again,  "I 
hope  these  little  ones  appreciate  what  you  have 
done  for  them  !  On  Monday,  Mr.  Casey,  the 
twenty-seven  volumes  become  yours  and  your 
heirs'  forever.  Henceforth  you  have  but  to  turn 
to  them  to  learn  all  you  wish  to  know  about,  —  er 

—  astronomy,  Mr.  Casey —  about — er  —  geology 

—  or  theology  —  or  about  any  one  of  twenty- 
three  thousand  subjects.  Good  evening  to  you 
all  —  delighted  to  have  met  you.  I  expect  to 
hear  of  a  future  President  Casey,  rising  to  the 


JUST  FOLKS  185 

highest  office  in  the  gift  of  the  American  people 
by  his  diligent  perusal  of  the  Great  Univer- 
sal Cyclopaedia  of  World  Knowledge.  Good 
evening." 

At  mention  of  that  future  President,  Pa  shot 
a  proud  look  at  Mary,  as  if  to  see  if  she  com- 
prehended what  he  was  doing  for  the  New  One. 
And  after  the  agent  was  gone  he  laid  down  the 
law  to  his  family.  By  that  time  Johnny  had 
come  in,  and  Pa  addressed  himself  to  Johnny 
and  Dewey,  ignoring  the  girls,  for  whom  he  felt 
an  "ixpinsive"  education  to  be  unnecessary. 
"Now,"  he  said,  "ye  heard  what  th'  agint  said 
about  th'  Prisident.  I  niver  see  annythin'  in 
ayther  o'  ye,  much  less  in  Mikey,  that  looked  t1 
me  like  a  buddin'  Prisident ;  but  I'm  after  buyin' 
this  here  ixpensive  education  in  the  hopes  that 
some  day  I  may  git  a  son  that'll  be  like  me,  wid 
ambition  t'  have  th'  bist  or  none  at  all.  Mane- 
while,  though,  you  two  can  be  learnin'  off  it. 
Soon's  it  git  here,  you,  Johnny,  will  begin  at 
wolume  wan,  page  wan,  an'  l'arn  ye  a  page 
iv'ry  night,  an'  Dewey'll  do  the  same — " 

"It'll  take  about  t'ree  years  to  a  wolume," 
said  Johnny,  who  was  pretty  good  at  figures. 

"An'  I'll  prob'bly  die  widout  knowin'  the 
ind!"  wailed  Dewey;  "I'll  niver  git  past  Pay 
an'Q!" 

Pa's  look  of  scorn  was  scathing.  "O'  course 
ye  can't  l'arn  iv'rything!"    he  said.     "Who'd 


186  JUST  FOLKS 

wish  t'  live  wid  ye  if  ye  did?  I  don't  know 
iv'rything  mesilf  !  But  if  you  Tarn  up  to  Pay 
an'  Q  time  you  die,  ye'll  be  no  slouch  —  which 
is  more'n  I  kin  say  of  ye  now.  But  t'  avin  t'ings 
up  a  bit,  Johnny  kin  begin  at  A  an'  l'arn  t'  Im 
(M),  an'  you  kin  begin  at  Im  an'  l'arn  t'  the  ind. 
Then,  betwane  ye,  whin  ye're  growed,  ye'll 
know  it  all.  'Tis  the  gran'  princ'ple  av  all  labor 
t'  pick  yer  job  an'  stick  to  't,  an'  not  meddle 
wid  no  other  felly's  job  whativer.  An'  in  l'arnin', 
be  all  I  hear,  'tis  just  the  same.  So  'tis  you," 
to  Johnny,  "from  A  t'  Im;  an'  Dewey  from  Im 
t'  the  ind  o'  the  book." 

"I  don't  ixpict  thim  t'  do  much  at  it,"  he 
told  Mary  later,  when  he  had  a  chance,  "but 
they  might's  well  be  l'arnin'  what  they  kin  off 
of  it  till  the  new  wan  git  so  he  kin  rade.  They've 
got  a  start  of  him,"  he  admitted,  "but  I  bet  he 
gits  caught  up  wid  thim  before  they  know  it." 

And  Mary  hadn't  the  heart  to  spoil  his  en- 
thusiasm by  suggesting  that  the  New  One  might 
be  a  girl. 

Spurred  by  pride  in  the  new  Cyclopaedia,  Pa 
did  get  work  on  Monday;  and  when  he  came 
home  at  supper  time  Monday  night,  there  the 
twenty-seven  volumes  were,  stacked  upon  the 
kitchen  floor. 

Out  of  Angela  Ann's  wages  —  three  dollars 
and  a  half  —  Mary  had  restored  the  insurance 


JUST  FOLKS  187 

nickels,  seven  of  them,  and  paid  fifty  cents  on 
the  Cyclopaedia,  and  with  great  difficulty  managed 
to  appease  the  stove  collector  for  a  few  days  with 
the  payment  of  one  dollar.  Then  there  had 
been  Sunday's  food  and  a  basket  of  coal,  so  that 
there  was  not  much  left,  on  Monday  night,  to 
face  another  week  with.  But  when  Pa  came 
home  and  announced  the  "gran'  job,"  which 
promised  to  be  good  for  several  weeks,  the  family 
spirits  rose  sky-high,  and  there  was  nothing  to 
mar  their  enjoyment  of  the  awe-inspiring  new 
possession. 

As  soon  as  the  supper  dishes  were  cleared 
away,  Pa  set  the  glass  lamp  back  in  the  middle 
of  the  table,  hunted  out  A  for  Johnny  and  M 
for  Dewey,  and  set  them  to  work. 

"Aw!"  said  Dewey,  after  a  few  moments  of 
intense  application,  while  his  parents  and  sisters 
looked  on  admiringly,  "this  here's  some  furrin 
lang'widge."  And  he  pointed  to  "Maas,  an 
affluent  of  the  Rhine,"  and  "Maasin,  a  seaport 
of  Leyte,"  and  "  Maassen,  an  Austrian  jurist," 
and  "Maastricht,  a  city  of  the  Netherlands." 

"Well,  wot  d'ye  t'ink  o'  dis  ?"  cried  Johnny, 
inviting  sympathy  for  himself  as  he  struggled 
with  "Aalborg,  on  the  south  shore  of  the  Lim- 
fjord,"  and  "Aard-vark,  a  burrowing,  nocturnal, 
insect-eating  mammal,"  and  "Abacus,  a  calculat- 
ing machine,  occasionally  employed  to  make  the 
elementary  operations  of  arithmetic  palpable." 


188  JUST  FOLKS 

But  Pa  was  inexorable.  "Most  all  l'arnin'  is 
in  furrin  tongues,"  he  said.  u  Sure,  anny  fool 
kin  know  English,  but  'tis  t'  know  what  thim 
quare  furrin  words  mane  that  fellies  goes  t' 
college." 

On  Saturday,  when  he  got  his  week's  pay,  Pa 
bought  a  book-case,  "be  aisy  paymints"  —  a 
"mahogany"  book-case,  smelling  quite  frankly 
of  pine  through  its  coats  of  sanguinary  red 
paint,  the  tears  of  varnish  trickling  forlornly  in 
places,  as  if  in  mortification  at  being  so  poor  a 
sham.  Two  dollars  had  to  go  "down"  for  this; 
and  thereafter  the  collector  would  call  once  in 
two  weeks  for  a  dollar  more,  until  nine  dollars 
and  sixty-nine  cents  had  been  paid. 

And  that  night  they  had  fried  eggs  and  lemon 
cream  pie  for  supper;  for  had  not  Pa  earned 
twenty-four  dollars  that  week  ? 

"Ye  see,"  he  said  to  Johnny  and  Dewey, 
when  they  went  reluctantly  to  their  "iducation," 
"what  a  man  kin  do  whin  he's  a  scholard. 
That's  why  I  want  youse  t'  try  an'  l'arn  all  ye 
kin,  so  ye  won't  have  t'  work  fer  no  cheap 
wages  whin  yer  growed.  Fer  'tis  much  better 
t'  work  a  day  now  an'  thin  fer  four  dollars,  ner 
t'  work  iv'ry  day  fer  a  dollar  an'  a  quarter  — 
like  an  Eyetalian.  Thim  cheap  Guineas  has 
no  standin' ;  but,  wid  me  !  theer  ain'  no  better 
trade  in  the  country  ner  what  stone-cuttin'  is  !" 

But  after  supper  Pa  went  to  O'Shaughnessy's 


JUST  FOLKS  189 

saloon  at  the  corner,  to  tell  the  men  congregated 
there  about  the  "iducation"  he  was  providing 
for  his  boys,  and  before  he  came  stumbling  home 
a  large  hole  had  been  made  in  his  wages.  And 
by  and  by,  when  the  "iducation"  got  to  be  an 
•old  story,  Pa  lost  his  zest  for  work,  and  things 
lapsed,  presently,  into  their  more  habitual  state 
of  pinching  poverty. 

Those  were  busy  weeks  for  Beth  ;  trouble  was 
rampant  in  the  Ghetto  and  she  seemed  to  have 
her  hands  full  day  and  night.  She  was  worried 
when  she  heard  about  Pa  being  out  of  work 
again  and  was  intending  to  take  the  first  oppor- 
tunity to  go  over  to  Henry  Street,  when  word 
came  to  her  that  confirmed  all  her  worst  fears : 
"Angela  Ann  is  gon\" 


XI 


It  was  Johnny  who  brought  to  Beth  the  news 
of  Angela  Ann's  disappearance.  He  came  over 
to  Maxwell  Street  before  breakfast  on  a  Tuesday 
morning  in  mid-December,  and  asked  to  speak 
to  Beth  "private."  His  agitation  was  so  evident 
that  at  once  she  scented  something  beyond  the 
ordinary  run  of  tragedy  in  the  Casey  family; 
and  setting  down  the  coffee-pot,  she  withdrew 
to  the  dark  hall  outside. 

Here  Johnny  told  her,  in  scared  whispers, 
that  Angela  Ann  had  not  been  home  all  night; 
that  his  mother  was  "'most  crazy";  and  that 
she  insisted  the  search  for  Angela  should  be 
carried  on  without  letting  any  of  the  neighbors 
know  she  was  gone. 

As  soon  as  she  could  swallow  a  cup  of  coffee  — 
and  the  depth  of  woe  communicated  to  Johnny 
by  his  mother  was  measurable  in  his  refusal  to 
come  in  out  of  the  hall  or  even  to  take  a  cup  of 
coffee  if  handed  out  to  him  there  —  Beth  went 
to  the  stricken  household  on  Henry  Street. 

They  were  all  in  the  kitchen,  of  course,  and 
every  face  except  baby  Annie's  was  pallid  with 
fright  and  streaked  with  tears. 

190 


JUST  FOLKS  191 

Talking  in  hushed  tones,  so  that  by  no  chance 
might  the  Rubovitzes  or  the  new  Irish  tenants  up- 
stairs overhear,  Mary  told  of  her  anxiousness  as 
the  evening  wore  on  and  Angela  did  not  come ; 
of  how  she  had  tried  not  to  worry  but  to  assure 
herself  that  Angela  was  "workin'  late";  of 
how  she  had  sat  up  for  her  girl,  after  the  others 
were  gone  to  bed ;  of  how,  as  it  wore  on  to  mid- 
night and  past,  she  had  grown  sicker  and  sicker 
with  fear ;  of  how  she  had  gone,  time  and  again, 
to  the  corner  and  waited  for  a  car  to  come  by, 
thinking  it  might  bring  her ;  and  of  how  she  had 
sat  through  the  long,  slow  morning  hours  of 
her  vigil,  until  the  others  of  the  household  woke, 
thinking,  thinking  what  to  do. 

The  first  thing  that  could  be  done,  Mary  had 
already  done ;  that  was  to  see  if  by  any  chance 
Angela  Ann  could  have  gone  to  her  Aunt  Maggie's 
to  spend  the  night.  At  six  o'clock  Johnny  had 
been  dispatched  thither,  and  presently  had 
returned  thence  with  no  tidings  of  the  lost  one. 

The  next  thing  was  to  visit  the  place  of  An- 
gela's employment  and  see  if  she  came  to  work. 
If  she  didn't,  and  if  no  word  of  her  came  all 
day,  they  would  have  to  consult  again  in  the 
evening. 

"Ye  won'  lit  it  git  in  the  papers,  will  ye?" 
Mary  pleaded.  "Ye'll  kape  thim  off  of  her, 
won't  ye  ?  I'm  after  tellin'  the  childern  I'll 
kill  the  first  wan  o'  thim  that  breathe  t'  a  soul 


192  JUST  FOLKS 

we  don'  know  wheer  Ang'la  Ann  is.  Agin  she 
be  all  right  an'  come  home,  it'd  go  hard  wid  her 
if  these  Sheenies  'round  here  knew  she  was 
gon'.  People  do  belave  the  worst  of  a  girl, 
always.  I  dunno  what  t'  t'ink  o'  my  Ang'la, 
but  I  don'  want  it  t'  go  hard  wid  her  if  she 
don'  desarve  it." 

Beth  promised  about  the  papers  and  went, 
heavy-hearted,  on  her  way. 

That  was  Delinquent  Children's  day  in  Court 
and  Beth  was  busy.  Cold  and  gloom  outside, 
with  only  cluttered  kitchens  to  go  to  inside, 
trebled  the  tendency  of  Ghetto  young  folk  to 
misdeeds.  One  finds  it  all  but  impossible  to 
blame  human  nature  for  not  being  strong  in  such 
conditions  ;  and  so,  the  hot  resentment  that  flames 
out  against  this  wretchedness,  directs  itself 
toward  the  conditions  and,  beyond  them,  toward 
any  sluggish  ease  or  selfish  strife  that  makes  and 
keeps  them  what  they  are. 

Beth  was  up  in  the  front  of  the  court  room, 
near  the  clerk's  desk,  listening  to  the  defence  in 
a  case  she  had  brought  before  the  Court,  when 
she  saw  Mary  Casey's  shawl-shrouded  figure 
slip  into  a  back  bench  and  Mary's  white,  anguish- 
stricken  face  turn  toward  her  with  despairing 
negation  in  its  look  that  answered  Beth's  look 
of  questioning. 

After  Court  was  over,  Beth  "walked  a  piece" 
with    Mary,  whose    only    opportunity    to    talk 


JUST  FOLKS  193 

confidentially  to  Beth  this  was.  Johnny's  visit 
to  the  place  where  Angela  worked  was  productive 
of  "tur'ble  bad"  news:  Angela  Ann  had  "give 
notice"  on  Saturday  night,  had  been  "paid 
up,"  and  quit. 

This  made  it  seem  less  likely  that  she  had  met 
with  accident  or  foul  play,  and  more  likely  that 
she  had  intended  to  go  away.  Beth  made  no 
comment  to  this  effect,  hoping  to  spare  Mary 
the  sharper  grief ;   but  Mary  saw  for  herself. 

"Sure,"  she  wept  softly  under  her  black  shawl, 
as  they  walked  west  in  Ewing  Street,  "I  t'ought 
it  was  pritty  bad  whin  I  feared  she  was  run  over 
an'  kilt  er  somethin'  like  that.  But,  my  God  ! 
a  body  could  stan'  that.  If  she  've  wint  away 
intintional  —  oh !  she  couldn'  do  that,  d'ye 
t'ink  ?  She  wint  out  yistiday  mornin'  wid  a 
chune  on  her  lips,  a-hummin'  as  gay  as  a  bird. 
She  couldn'  have  done  that  if  she  knew  she 
were  goin'  t'  break  my  heart  —  could  she  ?" 

"I  don't  see  how  she  could,"  Beth  admitted. 

"No,"  said  Mary,  drying  her  tears  and  grasp- 
ing hopefully  at  the  idea  of  death  rather  than 
dishonor;  "I  don'  belave  she  could.  She  must 
'a'  t'ought  she  had  a  better  job  —  poor  little 
t'ing  !  —  an'  didn'  want  t'  tell  me  'bout  it  till 
she  was  sure  she  had  it.  Fer  she  was  rale 
happy-like  on  Sunda'  —  the  first  she've  been 
since  her  Pa  got  out  o'  work  an'  the  new  wan 
comin' !" 


194  JUST  FOLKS 

"Did  she  know?" 

"Sure!  I'm  after  tellin'  her  a  couple  o' 
wakes  back,  an'  at  first  she  tuck  it  pritty  hard ; 
but  after  that,  seemed  like  she  didn'  mind  so 
much." 

Beth  hadn't  the  heart  to  tell  Mary  her  own 
belief  that  Angela  Ann  had  gone  away  on  account 
of  the  New  One.  And  just  then,  Mary's  sister 
Maggie  caught  up  with  them  on  her  way  over 
to  Mary's  to  ask  for  further  news. 

Beth  stayed  with  them  only  long  enough  to 
get  Mary's  decision  about  telling  the  police; 
and  departed  with  the  understanding  that  if 
Angela  Ann  did  not  come  home  to-night  for 
supper,  her  disappearance  would  have  to  be 
reported,  though  with  every  possible  entreaty 
and  pressure  of  influence  to  keep  it  out  of  the 
papers. 

Angela  Ann  did  not  come  home,  and  about 
eight  o'clock  Beth  went  over  to  the  Maxwell 
Street  Station  and  reported  the  case. 

"Guess  I  better  go  over  and  see  about  it," 
said  Sergeant  Doonan.  He  mistrusted  Beth's 
understanding  of  the  situation,  feeling  sure  that 
so  small  a  girl  was  easily  hoodwinked.  "There's 
probably  a  lot  they  don't  tell  you,"  he  went 
on,  patronizingly,  and  teased  Beth  with  a  laugh- 
ing reminder  of  her  experience  with  the  "t'ief" 
and  the  pawn-tickets. 

Beth  bottled  her  wrath.     She  could  not  find 


JUST  FOLKS  195 

Angela,  and  in  all  probability  the  police  could 
if  they  half  tried ;  so  she  must  keep  their  in- 
terest. 

"That's  right,"  she  said.  "Shall  I  go  with 
you,  or  do  you  think  you  could  get  more  by  going 
alone?" 

She  was  so  meek  that  the  Sergeant  was  sorry 
for  her. 

"Oh,  you  can  come  along!"  he  responded 
handsomely  —  thinking,  no  doubt,  what  a  lesson 
in  proper  methods  his  interrogation  of  the 
Caseys  would  be  to  her. 

Henry  Street  was  as  dark  as  Tartarus,  and 
a  shade  more  dreadful,  as  they  stumbled  their 
way  along  its  "intermittent  sidewalk"  as  Beth 
called  it,  and  down  the  steep  flight  of  rickety 
wooden  steps  leading  to  the  black  passageway. 
Beth  led  the  way  back  to  the  kitchen  door  which 
Mary  opened  to  her  knock. 

The  kitchen  was  stifling  close.  In  the  bracket 
above  the  sink  was  the  only  light,  and  the 
tin  reflector,  instead  of  diffusing  the  lamp 
rays,  seemed  to  concentrate  them,  like  a  feeble 
search  light,  so  that  the  corners  of  the  kitchen 
were  all  in  gloom,  and  half  lost  in  shadows 
were  the  forms  of  the  grief-stricken  Caseys, 
whose  pallid,  tear-streaked  faces  showed  sharply 
white  against  the  dusk. 

"This,"  said  Beth  to  Mary,  "is  Sergeant 
Doonan,  Mrs.  Casey."     To  her  relief  and  the 


196  JUST  FOLKS 

bitter  disappointment  of  the  children,  he  was 
a  plain-clothes  man. 

Nodding  a  brief  recognition  of  the  introduc- 
tion, he  proceeded  at  once  to  business. 

"Had  any  word  ?"    he  asked. 

"Niver  a  word." 

"You  say  she  left  home  Monday  morning, 
just  as  usual,  to  go  to  work  ?" 

"Yissir." 

"And  you  don't  think  she  intended  to  stay 
away  ?" 

Mary's  eyes  flashed.  "If  I  t'ought  a  girl 
o'  mine  could  walk  out  an'  l'ave  me  intintional, 
wid  a  chune  on  her  lyin'  lips,  I'd  not  be  askin' 
ye  t'  find  her,"  she  said. 

"Did  she  have  a  beau  ?" 

"None  that  I  iver  see." 

"Didn't  she   ever  talk   about   any  fellow?" 

"Oh,  sure  !  she  used  t'  be  after  talkin'  'bout 
gran'  fellies  she'd  see  down  town.  An'  I  always 
sez  to  her:  'You  mark  me  words  an'  l'ave 
gran'  fellies  be.  They  don'  mane  no  good  t' 
the  likes  o'  you,'  I  says.  'Thim  fellies  spinds 
ivry  cint  they  git  on  theer  gol'  watches  an'  swallie- 
tails,  an'  whin  they  marry  they  got  t'  marry  a 
girl  wid  money  t'  support  thim.  Whin  yer  old 
enough  t'  take  up  wid  anny  wan,'  I  says,  'yer 
pa  er  yer  Uncle  Tim'll  introjuce  ye  t'  some  nice 
young  lab'rin'  man  wid  a  good  trade  an'  ambi- 
tion t'  git  on ;    an'  you  work  fer  him  while  he 


JUST  FOLKS  197 

work  fer  you  !'  'Ah,  ye  don'  know  nothin'  'bout 
it,'  she'd  say  t'  me.  An',  'Don'  you  belave  that !' 
I'd  say  t'  her ;  '  I'm  nothin'  t'  look  at,  an'  I  ain' 
got  much  style  about  me,  but  I  got  some  knowl- 
idge  o'  mm,'  I  says,  'which  God  knows  I  paid 
dear  t'  git,'  I  says,  'an'  they're  a  bad  lot,  avin 
th'  bist  o'  thim.  So  you  git  it  out  o'  yer  silly  hid 
that  anny  gran'  felly's  goin'  t'  marry  you  er  the 
likes  o'  you.  Ye  may  rade  such  foolishness  in 
yer  story  papers  er  hear  it  at  yer  theayters ; 
but  ye  kin  mark  me  words  that  love  is  fer  tony 
folks  that  kin  afford  it,  an'  not  fer  the  likes  o' 
you  an'  me.'" 

The  detective  listened  judicially.  Beth  in- 
terrupted by  neither  word  nor  sign.  Casey 
kept  conspicuously  quiet.  The  children  were 
awed  into  an  almost  breathless  silence.  Even 
Jarge  Washin'ton  forbore  to  snuffle  or  to 
pound  the  floor  with  his  stub  of  tail.  (The 
"hin,"  alas  !  had  gone  on  the  altar  of  necessity. 
"We  can't  afford  t'  kape  no  hin  just  t'  look  at," 
Mary  had  decided  when  due  trial  had  been 
given  of  her  laying  powers.  So  Nellie,  ap- 
preciably fattened  by  her  undisputed  pickings 
from  the  children's  scanty  plates,  had  gone 
to  the  butcher  in  exchange  for  a  piece  of  meat ; 
which  seemed  at  least  one  degree  less  cannibal 
than  for  themselves  to  eat  Nellie.)  Beth,  not- 
ing Jarge  and  remembering  Nellie,  was  wonder- 
ing what  difference  it  would  have  made  in  the 


198  JUST  FOLKS 

Sergeant's  "methods"  if  he  could  have  known 
these  things. 

"Was  she  gay  at  all?"     he  asked  Mary. 

"She  be  a  little  granehorn,  wid  no  sinse  yit," 
the  mother  of  Angela  Ann  replied.  "I'm  after 
talkin'  t'  her  the  whole  blissid  time  about  kapin' 
straight  —  as  Miss  Tully  know  —  an'  not  l'avin' 
'er  go  out  nights.  But  I  dunno  !  Whin  a  girl 
have  her  livin'  t'  make  annywheer  she  kin  find 
it,  an'  her  lovin'  a  good  time  as  all  young  t'ings 
does,  an'  min  bein'  what  they  are,  'tain't  her 
mother  that  know  fer  sure  wheer  she  is  or  what 
she  be." 

At  this  Pa  sat  suddenly  forward  in  his  chair, 
forgetful  of  the  pawn-ticket  episode,  and  others 
with  the  Maxwell  Street  police ;  and  the  streak 
of  light  from  the  lamp  fell  full  across  his  face, 
swollen  with  tears  and  streaked  with  the  unpro- 
tested grime  of  this  awful  day  during  which 
he  had  sat  by  the  kitchen  stove  and  moaned, 
"I  dunno  what  I  iver  done  that  this  t'ing  should 
'a'  happened  t'  me  !" 

"She  were  a  good  girl  !"  he  said  to  the  de- 
tective. "Her  ma  were  awful  aisy  wid  'er,  but 
I'm  strict,  an'  I  kep'  watch  o'  her." 

Mary  flashed  him  a  look  of  scorn.  "So  far's 
we  know,  she  were  a  good  girl,"  she  amended, 
still  addressing  the  detective.  "But  she  had 
no  sinse  yit,  bein'  so  young.  An'  the  young 
niver    belaves    the    old    an'    theer   wisdom.      I 


JUST  FOLKS  199 

don'  see  how  a  girl  o'  mine  could  go  wrong  an' 
me  hatin'  it  the  way  I  do.  But  she  have  more 
o'  him  in  her  ner  o'  me,  down  t'  thim  same 
shifty  blue  eyes  that  kin  look  so  swate  at  ye,  an' 
God  know  what  divilmint's  behint  thim  !" 

Pa  smiled  in  wan  coquetry  at  this  charge 
against  his  fascinations,  but  reiterated  in  de- 
fence of  his  daughter  —  and  of  himself  as  a 
strict  parent :  — 

"  She  were  a  good  girl !  I  seen  a  piece  o'  this 
world,  of'cer,  an'  I  kin  till  —  min  like  us,  we  kin 
till  girls  that's  merely  flightsome  from  thim 
that's  gon'  t'  th'  bad.  If  she's  bad,  I  don'  want 
ye  t'  find  her.  Jes'  show  me  th'  felly  that  lied 
t'  her,  an'  I'll  kill  'im  —  but  I  don'  want  ye  t' 
find  her.  I  don'  niver  want  t'  set  eyes  on 
her  agin  if  she  've  disgraced  me." 

Beth  was  grateful  to  the  detective  for  the  un- 
tempered  scorn  with  which  he  treated  this 
heroic  outburst  of  Pa's.  There  were  more  ques- 
tions, mostly  about  Angela  Ann's  appearance, 
the  clothes  she  was  wearing  when  she  disap- 
peared, how  much  of  her  wages  she  gave  her  ma, 
and  the  names  of  any  girls  she  ever  went  with. 

On  their  way  back  to  Maxwell  Street,  Beth 
told  the  Sergeant  about  the  red  skirt  and  about 
the  fellow  Angela  had  met  at  the  Greek's.  He 
wanted  to  go  at  once  to  Blue  Island  Avenue 
and  interview  Peter  the  Greek;  but  Beth  pro- 
tested. 


200  JUST  FOLKS 

"Try  the  donor  of  the  red  skirt,  first,"  she 
pleaded.  "  If  you  go  to  the  Greek's,  it'll  spread 
over  the  neighborhood  in  an  hour  that  the 
police  are  looking  for  Angela  Ann." 

Doonan  demurred.  "You're  tryin'  to  save 
the  girl's  reputation,"  he  said,  "and  I'm  tryin' 
to  save  the  girl." 

"You're  trying  to  find  the  girl,"  Beth  cor- 
rected. "There'll  be  no  saving  her  if  she 
comes  back,  or  is  brought  back,  and  finds 
her  reputation  gone.  Try  the  red-skirt  fellow 
first  —  I  know  how  he  looks  —  I'll  go  with  you 
and  point  him  out." 

So  that  was  where,  next  morning,  the  search 
for  Angela  Ann  began.  An  inquiry  of  the  youth 
who  had  given  the  skirt,  as  to  where  Angela 
"was  workin'  now"  brought  an  unmistakably 
indifferent  reply. 

"I  ain't  seen  'er  in  mont's,"  he  said.  And 
even  Doonan  believed  him. 

They  went  next  to  the  place  where  Beth  had 
got  Angela  a  job  —  the  job  she  had  left  on 
Saturday.  Here  Beth  talked  to  her  acquaint- 
ance to  whom  she  had  pleaded  that  Angela 
needed  the  job.  To  him,  under  promise  of  se- 
crecy, Beth  confided  that  Angela  was  gone. 
He  did  what  he  could  to  help.  He  tried  to  find 
out  from  the  other  girls  what  her  habits  and 
associations  had  been,  but  with  no  results  that 
led  to  anything  but  wild-goose  chases  for  Doonan. 


JUST  FOLKS  201 

On  his  own  initiative,  Doonan  canvassed  the 
five-cent  theatres  in  the  vicinity  where  Angela 
had  last  worked,  and  other  places  where  a  girl 
who  had  run  away  from  home  on  more  or  less 
innocent  pleasure  bent  might  indulge  her  first 
selfishness.  One  splendid  indulgence  to  which 
Angela  had  always  aspired  was  what  she  called 
"K  lunch,"  meaning  the  bakery  luncheons 
served  in  many  stores  throughout  the  city  by  a 
firm  whose  name  began  with  K.  Doonan  watched 
these  for  several  days,  without  results. 

It  began  to  seem  less  and  less  likely  that 
Angela  had  run  away,  taken  another  job,  and 
was  testing  the  joy  of  keeping  her  earnings  for 
herself.  For  one  thing,  if  she  had  to  pay  board, 
she  could  hardly  do  it  and  have  left  over  for 
pleasures  and  clothes  more  than  a  pittance 
which  would  soon  cease  to  satisfy  her.  And  for 
another,  the  pitfalls  were  too  numerous  and  too 
cunningly  laid  to  leave  much  hope  that  Angela 
had  avoided  them.  If  they  could  find  trace 
of  one  particular  fellow,  they  might  reason- 
ably conclude  that  Angela  had  gone  with  him. 
If  they  could  not,  the  worst  of  all  possibilities 
only  was  left :  she  had  been  trapped  by  the 
powers  that  prey.  Of  this  latter  likelihood 
Mary  had,  fortunately,  little  or  no  knowledge. 
If  she  had  ever  heard  of  such  things,  she  had 
thought  of  them  only  as  remote  dangers.  What 
she  feared  most  for  Angela  was  what  Beth  was 


202  JUST  FOLKS 

beginning  to  wish  she  dared  to  hope :  that  the 
girl  had  gone  with  some  young  fellow  for  whom 
she  had  a  feeling  of  attachment  and  who  had 
promised  to  give  her  "a  good  time"  and  was, 
probably,  doing  it. 

The  only  clews  to  a  possible  "beau"  were  the 
admission  Angela  had  made  to  Beth  about  a 
"fella"  she  had  met  up  at  the  Greek's,  who  had 
taken  her  to  the  palm  garden ;  and  something 
she  had  said  to  her  Aunt  Maggie  Kavanagh 
about  a  stylish  young  man  who  could  not  be 
asked  to  the  back  cellar  on  Henry  Street.  Aunt 
Maggie,  whose  husband  was  a  blacksmith,  had 
offered  her  own  "parlie"  for  the  courting. 

"'Bring  him  here  an'  l'ave  us  have  a  look  at 
him,'  I  sez  to  her.  'Ye  kin  have  th'  parlie  anny 
toime  ye  want  it,'  I  sez,  'an'  if  yer  'shamed  o' 
yer  Uncle  Tim's  brogue,  he  kin  stay  in  th'  shop, 
an'  I'll  talk  t'  him  mesilf,'  I  sez." 

But  Angela  Ann  had  not  accepted  this  hand- 
some offer,  nor  had  she  confided  the  name  of  the 
young  man  to  Mrs.  Kavanagh,  who  only  knew 
Angela  Ann  had  assured  her  he  was  a  gentleman 
beyond  a  doubt,  for  he  had  a  gold  watch  and 
chain. 

Fired  by  this  information,  which  he  considered 
an  important  clew,  Casey  was  for  carrying  it 
at  once  to  the  police  so  that  they  might  investi- 
gate all  young  men  wearing  gold  watches  and 
thereby  in  due  process  find  the  one  who  knew 


JUST  FOLKS  203 

Angela  Ann.  But  before  he  could  get  away 
to  furnish  the  detective  with  this  important 
information,  Mrs.  Kavanagh  had  made  some 
further  suggestions.  The  chief  of  these  was 
touching  the  advisability  of  consulting  a  fortune- 
teller. 

"Thim  coppers,"  she  opined,  "is  no  good. 
Tim's  after  radin'  a  lot  about  thim  in  th'  paapers, 
an'  he  sez  they  niver  ketch  nothin'  't  all.  He 
sint  ye  a  dollar  wid  me,  and  sez  he,  'You  till 
thim  t'  stop  foolin'  wid  coppers  an'  go  t'  th' 
forchune-teller,'  sez  he." 

"I  belave  it  have  more  t'  do  wid  what  th' 
forchune-tellers  know  than  wid  what  thim 
coppers  kin  foind  out,"  reflected  Mary  Casey. 
"Theer's  somet'ing  I  didn't  till  th'  ditictive, 
not  knowin'  how  he'd  take  it  —  but  the  day 
befoore  Ang'la  Ann  wint,  a  quare,  wan-eyed 
cat  kem  here.  Ivrywheer  I  wint  thot  day 
she  traipsed  at  me  heels,  an'  all  Monday  night 
whin  I  was  up  watchin'  fer  Ang'la,  th'  cat  was 
on  th'  windie-sill,  howlin'  what  sounded  joost 
like  Aan-g'la,  Aan-g'la,  Aan-g'la.  Now  what 
dy'e  make  o'  thot  ?" 

Mrs.  Kavanagh  had  been  fumbling  in  her 
plush  wrist-bag  during  this  recital.  "Say,"  she 
said  presently,  holding  out  a  very  dirty  card, 
"th'  las'  night  Ang'la  Ann  was  t'  our  house 
she  was  after  l'avin'  th'  baby  play  wid  her  purse, 
an'  th'  baby  spilt  all  th'  t'ings  out  av  it.     We 


2o4  JUST  FOLKS 

picked  thim  up,  an'  I  t'ought  we  got  thim  all, 
but  whin  I  was  clanein'  yiste'day,  I  foun'  this 
card.     It  mus'  be  hers,  fer  Tim  say  he  niver 
see  it,  an'  no  more  did  I." 
The  card  read  :  — 


CX  HALBERG 

Dramatic  Agent  — West  Madison  Street 


"That's  him,  I  bet  ye  !"  cried  Casey,  excitedly; 
"that's  th'  felly  wid  th'  goP  watch  an'  chain  !" 

"Wait  a  minute!"  commanded  Mrs.  Kava- 
nagh,  impatiently.  "Tim  sez  thot  have  somet'ing 
t'  do  wid  a  theaytre.' 

"Sure,"  said  Mary  Casey,  "Ang'la  Ann  would- 
n'  be  so  grane  as  t'  ixpict  no  theaytre  guy  t' 
marry  her !  She'd  ought  t'  know  thim  niver 
marries ;  or  if  they  do,  they  have  a  wife  in  ivry 
town,  loike  soldiers  an'  travellin'-min  !  I  niver 
bin  to  no  theaytre  in  my  life,  but  I  know  that 
much  !" 

Casey,  who  had  sat  apathetically  by  the  stove 
ever  since  gray  morning  dawned  after  the  frantic 
vigil  of  Monday  night,  was  struggling  with  the 
lacings  of  his  shoes  preparatory  to  setting  forth 


JUST  FOLKS  205 

to  demolish  O.  Halberg  if  he  proved  his  guilt  by- 
wearing  a  gold  watch  and  chain. 

"Ye  kin  spend  yer  dollar  on  yer  wan-eyed  cat," 
he  said  indulgently,  "but  as  fer  me,  I  got  t'  foind 
thot  felly  thot  lied  t'  me  girl." 

So  the  inaction  of  the  past  three  days  was  over, 
temporarily  at  least.  Casey  was  bound  for  O. 
Halberg's,  and  Mrs.  Casey  and  Mrs.  Kavanagh 
were  going  to  approach  some  fortune-teller 
with  the  dollar  and  the  tale  of  the  cat.  But 
first  of  all  Mary  must  go  to  the  school  and  take 
Johnny  out  to  mind  the  baby  in  her  absence. 

"Now,  you  be  keerful,"  she  adjured  Casey  as 
he  made  ready  to  go,  "an'  don'  kill  nobody  be 
mistake.  Th'  bist  way  is  t'  kill  nobody  at  all," 
she  continued  cautiously. 

In  spite  of  this  caution,  however,  there  would 
have  been  danger  in  prospect  if  Casey  had 
owned  a  gun  or  if  he  had  taken  a  few  drinks. 
As  it  was,  he  was  not  a  formidable  figure  when 
he  presented  himself  at  the  number  on  West 
Madison  Street,  a  few  doors  from  Halsted. 

There  was  a  pawnshop  on  the  first  floor,  and 
beside  it  a  narrow  door,  which  opened  upon  a 
long  flight  of  wooden  stairs  rising  steeply  to 
a  dark  hall,  where,  by  the  light  of  a  two-foot  gas 
burner,  Casey  could  make  out  the  name  "O. 
Halberg"  on  one  of  the  dozen  doors.  The 
name  was  painted  on  a  black  tin  plate  tacked  to 
a  rear  door.     Casey  knocked. 


206  JUST  FOLKS 

"Come  in,"  said  a  guttural  voice. 

Entering,  Casey  saw  a  man  sitting  with  his 
feet  on  a  battered  desk;  he  was  reading  the 
morning  paper  and  smoking  a  vile  cigar.  The 
walls,  kalsomined  a  kind  of  ultramarine  blue, 
but  grimed  and  fouled  unspeakably,  were  hung 
with  theatrical  lithographs  depicting  thrilling 
scenes  from  plays  on  the  blood-and-thunder 
circuit.  For  the  rest,  the  furnishings  were  two 
wooden  chairs,  a  giant  cuspidor,  and  the  desk, 
which  looked  as  if  it  had  never  been  new. 

"Have  I,"  said  Casey  in  his  grandest  manner, 
"th'  honor  t'  addriss  Mr.  O.  Halberg  ?" 

O.  Halberg  grunted  that  he  had.  Then 
Casey  advanced  a  step  further  into  the  room 
and  looked  about  for  a  sight  or  trace  of  Angela 
Ann.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  damning 
than  O.  Halberg's  gold  chain,  but  in  no  likelihood 
would  Angela  Ann,  by  any  stretch  of  courtesy, 
have  called  him  young;  he  was  probably  fifty,  and 
not  prepossessing  from  any  possible  point  of  view. 

"Me  name  is  Casey,"  ventured  the  visitor; 
"me  girl  is  lost,  an'  I'm  lookin'  fer  her.  We 
found  this,"  proffering  the  dirty  card,  "an'  we 
t'ought  mebbe  you'd  know  wheer  she  is." 

Casey  was  proud  of  the  neatness  and  despatch 
of  his  "ditictive"  methods,  but  more  than  a  little 
disappointed  to  find  so  soon  that  he  was  on  the 
wrong  trail  entirely.  Mr.  Halberg  was  truly 
surprised    to    be    approached    with    any    such 


JUST  FOLKS  207 

query.  A  great  many  little  silly,  stage-struck 
girls  flocked  to  see  him,  of  course,  and  no  doubt 
some  of  them  got  hold  of  his  cards  "  in  the  hope 
of  using  them  to  impress  managers,"  but  he  had 
no  recollection  of  any  girl  named  Casey  —  none 
whatever.  And  he  resumed  the  reading  of  his 
paper. 

"I  got  th'  coppers  after  her,"  murmured 
Casey  apologetically,  as  he  took  his  leave, 
"but  thim  coppers  is  no  good.  Ag'in  ye  want 
ditictive  work  done,  ye  better  do  it  yersilf." 

O.  Halberg  did  not  deign  to  reply,  but  when 
Casey  was  safely  outside  he  stepped  to  the  door 
and  locked  it.  In  case  the  "coppers  "  came 
around,  it  would  be  just  as  well  to  be  "out" 
—  it  would  save  the  coppers  some  troublesome 
pretence. 

In  his  descent  of  the  steep  stairs  Casey  met 
two  girls  coming  up.  They  were  about  Angela 
Ann's  age  and  were  giggling  nervously.  One  of 
them  held  between  thumb  and  finger  a  quarter- 
inch  "ad"  from  a  morning  paper,  offering:  — 

"High-salaried  positions  in  good  road  com- 
panies to  young  ladies  of  pleasing  appearance. 
O.  Halberg,  Dramatic  Agent,  —  West  Madison 
Street." 

"Ask  him  if  this  is  the  place,"  said  the  girl 
who  appeared  to  be  following  the  other's  lead. 
Casey  directed  them  to  O.  Halberg's  door,  then 
went  on  his  way.     A  moment  later,  while  he 


208  JUST  FOLKS 

stood  on  the  corner  of  Halsted  Street  waiting 
for  a  south-bound  car,  he  saw  the  girls  emerge 
from  the  door  by  the  pawnshop.  They  passed 
him  as  they  went  to  take  an  east-bound  Madison 
Street  car  on  the  opposite  corner. 

"Did  ye  foind  him  ?"   Casey  asked. 

"No,  he  wasn't  in." 

"That's  quare,"  he  said,  startled;  "he  was 
there  wan  minute  before." 

On  his  way  home  Casey  dropped  in  at  the 
Maxwell  Street  Station  in  a  free-and-easy  manner 
he  could  not  have  dreamed  possible  two  days  ago. 
He  was  so  full  of  his  "ditictive"  experience 
that  he  felt  he  must  have  some  one,  if  only  a 
copper,  to  talk  it  over  with.  Doonan  wasn't  in, 
so  Casey  related  his  recent  daring  exploit  to  no 
less  a  personage  than  the  desk  sergeant  himself. 

It  was  well  poor  Casey  could  not  hear  the  desk 
sergeant's  account  of  the  call  after  the  self- 
appointed  sleuth  had  gone  on  his  way. 

Mrs.  Casey  was  at  home  when  her  husband 
got  there.  Relating  her  adventures,  after  she 
had  listened  to  his,  she  said  that  the  fortune-teller, 
after  accepting  the  dollar,  had  asked  several 
searching  questions   about  the  one-eyed  cat. 

"'Ag'in  th'  cat  come  back,  yer  girl  '11  come 
home,'  she  sez  t'  me." 

The  days  dragged  by.  There  seemed  to  be 
a  complete  lapse  of  the  stone-cutting  industry, 


JUST  FOLKS  209 

so  Casey  had  nothing  to  take  his  mind  from  his 
"ditictive"  operations,  which  were  interesting 
and  unexhausting,  though  expensive  in  car  fare 
and  unproductive  of  results. 

As  time  wore  on,  the  poignant  horror  of 
Angela  Ann's  absence  grew  mercifully  less  for 
all  but  Mary  Casey.  Night  after  night  she 
wept  the  long  hours  through,  until  Casey 
complained  of  the  depressing  effect  of  her  grief, 
and  she  felt  constrained  to  hide  it. 

"If  I  could  on'y  know  she  were  dacintly 
dead,"  was  her  heart's  cry,  as  better  hopes 
died  in  her.  "Ag'in  a  bye  l'ave  home,  he  kin 
knock  around  an'  pick  up  a  bite  here  an'  a  lodgin' 
theer,  an'  be  none  th'  worse  fer  it.  But  a  girl 
bees  difl'runt !  Theer 's  always  thim  watchin' 
'round  thot's  riddy  t'  do  her  harm." 

Meanwhile  she  lied  bravely  to  the  neighbors. 
"Angela  Ann  bees  livin'  out  an'  have  th'  grandes' 
place,"  she  told  them  impressively;  "th'  lady 
she  live  wid  's  after  takin'  her  to  Floridy  fer  to 
mind  her  little  bye." 

Mary's  hope  was  strong  that  Christmas  would 
see  the  wanderer's  return;  but  the  holidays 
passed  in  unrewarded  waiting.  Casey  had  per- 
force abandoned  his  search,  and  worked  a  day 
or  two  now  and  then.  Though  the  traces  of 
really  terrible  suffering  were  still  in  his  weak, 
winsome  face,  he  had  long  since  forsaken  all  hope 
of   Angela    Ann's    "safety  with   honor";    and, 


210  JUST  FOLKS 

when  it  had  come  to  seem  unlikely  that  she 
ever  would  do  so,  took  comfort  in  vowing  that 
she  should  never  again  darken  the  door  of  his 
outraged  home. 

Mary  gave  over  pleading  for  her  girl,  in  the 
interests  of  family  peace,  but,  more  and  more  the 
embodiment  of  woe  as  the  weeks  wore  away, 
she  haunted  localities  where  Angela  Ann  had 
been  or  might  be.  Sometimes  she  had  wee 
Annie  in  her  arms,  but  oftener  she  left  her  at 
Aunt  Maggie's,  and  roamed  the  streets  unham- 
pered in  her  never-ending  quest. 

Evenings  she  would  say,  "I'll  be  goin'  t'  yer 
aunt's  a  bit,"  and  slip  away  into  the  engulfing 
dark,  to  reappear  in  the  glare  of  light  marking  the 
entrance  to  some  cheap  West  Side  theatre  or 
dance  hall.  Gradually  her  excursions  extended 
down  town,  where  she  would  take  up  her  station 
at  the  door  of  some  place  of  amusement  and 
stand  watching  the  pleasure-seekers  pour  in ; 
then  turn  away  and  wander  aimlessly  up  and 
down  the  streets  for  an  hour  or  so  before  facing 
homeward.  In  some  way  she  heard  about 
stage  doors,  and  took  to  haunting  them.  She 
saw  many  girls  of  Angela's  type,  and  wondered 
sadly  if  their  mothers  knew  where  they  were; 
but  her  own  girl  was  not  among  them.  In  those 
nights  on  the  flaming  streets  she  learned  more 
about  vice  than  she  had  ever  dreamed  of  in 
all    her   life,  and   the  world    came    to    seem  to 


JUST  FOLKS  211 

her  a  vast  trap  set  by  the  bestial  for  the 
unwary. 

Not  hunger,  nor  cold,  nor  abuse,  nor  sickness, 
nor  death,  as  it  came  to  four  of  her  children,  had 
driven  Mary  Casey  to  anything  like  the  poign- 
ancy of  feeling  that  was  hers  now.  Heretofore 
she  had  been  patiently  dumb  under  affliction ; 
now  her  spirit  cried  out  in  a  passion  of  pain  that 
called  straight  upon  Almighty  God  for  an  an- 
swer to  its  anguished  questionings. 

With  the  aid  of  Casey,  she  pored  over  the 
sensational  papers  in  search  of  stories  about  girls 
in  trouble,  and  never  a  horror  happened  to  an 
unidentified  girl  anywhere  but  Mary  was  sure  it 
was  Angela  Ann. 

Once  there  was  an  account  of  an  unknown 
young  woman  found  dead  on  the  prairies  near 
Dunning,  the  county  institution.  It  was  Johnny 
who  laboriously  spelled  out  this  story  for  her  — 
Casey  having  gone  to  that  club  of  congenial 
spirits,  O'Shaughnessy's  saloon  —  and  at  ten 
o'clock,  when  the  children  were  all  abed,  her 
anxieties  could  brook  no  more  delay.  Throwing 
a  shawl  about  her  head  and  shoulders,  she  stole 
along  the  pitchy  passageway,  up  the  long  flight 
of  steps  to  the  sidewalk,  clutching  the  torn  frag- 
ment of  newspaper  in  the  hand  that  held  the 
shawl  together  beneath  her  chin. 

It  was  Saturday  night,  and  the  avenue  was 
still  brightly  lighted.     One  or  two  acquaintances 


212  JUST  FOLKS 

greeted  her,  but  she  hurried  by  with  only  a  nod 
and  a  word.  At  Harrison  and  Halsted  Streets 
and  Blue  Island  Avenue,  where  three  streams  of 
ceaseless  activity  converge,  there  is  always  a 
whirlpool  rapids  of  traffic  and  humanity,  and 
there,  in  a  drug  store,  Mary  felt  far  enough  from 
her  own  haunts  and  all  who  knew  her  and  Angela 
Ann  to  venture  on  her  errand. 

"I  want  t'  tillyphone,"  she  whispered  to  the 
clerk,  who  pointed  impatiently  to  the  booth. 

"I  dunno  how,"  said  Mary,  imploringly.  "I 
want  ye  t'  do  it  fer  me.  R'ade  that."  She 
thrust  the  dirty,  crumpled  fragment  of  the  even- 
ing's yellow  journal  into  his  hand. 

The  young  man  glanced  at  it,  and  then  curi- 
ously at  her.     "I've  read  it,"  he  said. 

"Down  here,  somewheers,"  said  Mary,  point- 
ing vaguely  towards  the  last  paragraph,  "it  till 
wheer  she  be,  an'  I  want  ye  t'  tillyphone  that 
place  an'  ask  thim  have  she  a  large  brown  mole 
on  her  lift  side.  If  she  have,  I'm  goin'  out  theer 
this  night,  for  'tis  my  girl  I  t'ink  she  be." 

This  was  not  as  startling  an  episode  to  the 
young  man  addressed  as  it  might  have  been  to 
one  in  a  quieter  locality.  Nevertheless,  it 
smacked  of  the  dramatic  sufficiently  to  interest 
him,  and  when  Mary  proffered  her  nickel  he 
called  up  the  Dunning  morgue. 

After  what  seemed  an  interminable  wait, 
while  the  sleepy  morgue  attendant  at  the  county 


JUST  FOLKS  213 

poorhouse  was  being  summoned  by  repeated 
rings,  and  the  brief  colloquy  was  in  progress, 
the  clerk  emerged  from  the  booth. 

"The  girl  has  been  identified  this  evening," 
he  said. 

Disappointment  mingled  with  relief  in  Mary's 
countenance ;  she  had  reached  that  stage  where 
it  would  have  been  not  altogether  unendurable 
to  look  at  Angela  Ann's  dead  face,  even  in  a 
morgue. 

As  she  retraced  her  way  home,  the  chill  of  the 
sharp  February  night  struck  into  her  mercilessly. 
When  she  set  forth,  she  had  scarcely  noticed  it 
in  her  preoccupation ;  but  now  that  another 
expectation,  however  tragic,  had  proved  false, 
and  the  situation  stretched  ahead  of  her  in- 
definitely dull  and  despairing  again,  the  abrupt 
relaxation  left  her  physically  as  well  as  mentally 
"let  down,"  and  she  shivered  violently  as  she 
hurried  along. 

"Mother  o'  God,"  she  cried,  the  tears  rolling 
swiftly  down  her  shrunken  cheeks,  "wheer  is 
my  girl  this  night  ?  If  I  could  on'y  know  she 
had  a  roof  over  her  head  an'  a  fire  t'  kape  her 
warm  !" 

Casey  was  still  out  when  she  got  back,  and 
she  was  thankful,  for  the  sight  of  her  tears  made 
him  ugly  these  days.  "She  've  disgraced  us," 
he  said  of  Angela  Ann,  "an'  she  be  dead  t'  me, 
an'  ought  t'  be  t'  you,  if  ye  had  proper  shame." 


214  JUST  FOLKS 

"The  new  wan"  came  late  in  February,  and 
was  a  boy.  He  was  to  be  named  Patrick  for  his 
pa.  The  first  child  of  the  family  had  borne 
the  name,  but  he  was  long  since  dead ;  and  now 
the  New  One  was  to  have  it  and  do  it  honor. 

Beth  went  to  see  Patrick  when  he  was  two 
days  old,  and  there  was  no  mistaking  the  hap- 
piness he  brought  to  his  family. 

Somehow,  in  all  the  dire  poverty  of  the  win- 
ter —  Beth  had  had  to  intervene  more  than 
once  to  save  the  stove  from  "bein'  took"  — 
the  Cyclopaedia  remained.  The  enforced  educa- 
tional zeal  of  Johnny  and  Dewey  had  lapsed, 
and  the  "aisy  paymints"  emporium  had  seized 
the  sanguinary  book-case.  But  the  "wolumes" 
were  still  there,  owing  to  the  greater  leniency  of 
the  newspaper  over  the  emporium,  and  to  the 
fact  that  whenever  they  were  threatened,  Pa 
showed  such  keen  regret,  such  letting  down 
of  his  high  hopes  for  the  new  wan,  that  Mary 
made  some  sacrifice  of  food  or  warmth  and  kept 
the  "  twinty-sivin "  ranged  on  a  rude  shelf  in 
the  "front  room."  The  shelf  was  covered  with 
lace  shelf-paper  in  three  different-colored  layers 
—  red  and  green  and  yellow  —  and  was,  with 
the  "wolumes,"  the  chief  furnishing  of  that 
chill  best  room  which  was  to  be  a  "parlie" 
some  day  when  Pa's  "gran'  job"  persisted  long 
enough. 

On  the  occasion  of  Beth's  call,  Pa  —  who  had 


JUST  FOLKS  215 

all  too  evidently  accepted  an  unwise  number  of 
toasts  to  the  new  wan's  health  —  carried  wee 
Patsy,  shrouded  in  his  ma's  black  shawl,  into 
the  front  room  and  held  him  up  to  view  the 
"wolumes." 

"Look  at  th'  l'arnin'  yer  Pa  have  laid  by  fer 
ye,"  he  adjured  his  son.  And  Patsy  blinked, 
unmoved  by  the  appalling  weight  of  wisdom 
that  was  apportioned  to  him. 

He  was  to  be  christened  on  Tuesday  —  this 
was  Sunday  —  in  the  Holy  Family  Church.  His 
Aunt  Maggie  was  "after  lindin'  him  a  swell 
dress  t'  wear,"  and  there  was  going  to  be  a 
christening  party  afterwards.  Pa  was  "takin' 
special  intrust  in  the  christenin',"  Mary  informed 
Beth,  "an'  is  goin'  t'  carry  Patsy  t'  the  church 
himself.  What's  worryin'  him  now  is  the  god- 
parents. He  don'  want  no  ordinary  ignyram- 
muses  standin'  up  fer  Patsy  that  some  day 
Patsy  'd  be  ashamed  t'  own.  We  thought  o' 
you,  Miss  Tully,  now,  an'  that  young  man  o' 
yours  that  write  fer  the  paper.  If  he  could 
bring  another  writer  or  same  wan  like  that,  an' 
the  three  o'  ye  stan'  up  fer  Patsy,  it'd  be  some- 
thin'  like." 

Beth  accepted  for  herself,  and  said  she  thought 
she  might  accept  for  Mr.  Ferris  ;  about  the  third 
godparent,  she  didn't  know.  But  she  would  see 
Mr.  Ferris  this  evening  and  ask  him  to  do  what 
he  could. 


216  JUST  FOLKS 

Hart  Ferris  was  willing,  as  Beth  knew  he 
would  be,  not  only  to  stand  godfather  to  wee 
Patsy,  but  to  look  for  another  —  which  he  had 
no  difficulty  in  doing.  He  mentally  passed  in 
review  a  number  of  clever  young  fellows  he 
knew  who  wrote  books,  and  corking  good  books, 
too  —  but,  by  Jove  !  none  of  them  looked  im- 
pressive, any  more  than  he  himself  did.  Seemed 
as  if  Patsy  ought  to  have  one  godparent  who 
looked  like  incarnate  wisdom,  like  a  walking 
Cyclopaedia  !  There  was  one  man  Ferris  knew 
who  looked  like  that  —  he  was  one  of  the  minor 
book  reviewers  on  the  paper  —  but  his  sense  of 
humor  was  rudimentary,  and  he  might  not  be 
appealed  to  by  the  prospect  of  being  Patsy's 
godfather.  When,  however,  Ferris  had  broken 
the  news  to  him  in  a  way  that  enlisted  his  in- 
terest and  consent,  Ferris  began  to  feel  that  a 
mere  newspaper  job  should  no  longer  hold  him. 
"The  real  place  for  me,"  he  told  Beth,  "is  at 
the  court  of  Austria,  or  Germany,  or  wherever 
diplomacy  is  at  its  greatest  premium  to-day." 

But,  alas  !  and  alas  !  the  christening  so  nobly 
planned,  and  so  ably  carried  out,  was  destined 
to  be  followed  soon  by  mourning.  Poor  Patsy 
caught  cold,  in  the  big,  draughty  church,  and 
the  cold  developed  into  what  the  family  called 
"the  ammonia  on  the  lungs,"  and  in  two  days 
after  he  was  christened,  wee  Patsy  was  dead, 
and  there  was  woe  in  the  house  of  his  kindred. 


JUST  FOLKS  217 

There  are  people  in  this  world  who  seem  to 
think  it's  comparatively  easy  to  give  up  a  little 
tiny  baby  you've  only  had  a  few  days  —  es- 
pecially if  you  have  seven  other  children;  but 
that's  because  they  don't  know  how  many 
hopes  are  builded  about  each  New  One,  how 
many  fair  dreams  die  when  the  little  New  One 
slips  away  again.  There  were  people  who  thought 
Patsy's  coming  and  going  was  just  a  matter  of 
"a  baby  more  or  less"  to  the  Caseys ;  but  it 
was  much,  much  more  than  that.  It  seemed, 
somehow,  that  when  he  went,  the  promise  of 
splendidly  better  things  went,  too. 

And,  what  made  the  going  harder  still,  there 
was  no  money  to  bury  him  with  !  "Me  scrimpin' 
and  pinchin'  t'  pay  for  insur'nce  all  along," 
wept  poor  Mary,  "an'  whin  I  nade  a  fun'ral, 
'tis  fer  the  wan  child  that's  not  insured." 

They  owned  a  single  grave  in  Calvary;  in  it 
were  the  two  children  that  were  dead  these 
many  years  —  little  Mamie  and  little  Patsy  — 
and  the  law  would  allow  them  to  put  a  third 
tiny  body  in  with  the  others.  But  there  was  a 
coffin  to  be  bought,  and  an  interment  fee  to  be 
paid,  and  somehow  or  other  Patsy  must  be  got 
to  his  burial. 

Beth  felt  unable  to  help  much,  unless  she 
absolutely  must.  She  suggested  that  Ferris 
pass  a  hat  in  his  office.  "'Twouldn't  do  any 
good,"  he  said,  "I  never  knew  such  a  'broke' 


218  JUST  FOLKS 

bunch.  A  hat  passed  there  now  wouldn't  come 
back  with  the  lining  in  —  if  it  was  a  good  lining." 
So  it  was  decided  to  see  if  the  Parish  would  do 
aught  for  Patsy. 

Pa  went  to  the  priest  who  had  christened 
Patsy,  and  told  of  Patsy's  death.  The  priest 
was  Irish  —  a  big,  kindly  young  fellow  who  had 
been  a  peasant  boy  in  County  Kerry  and  knew 
the  sorrows  of  the  poor.  He  went  over  to 
Henry  Street  an  hour  or  two  afterward,  carrying 
a  tiny  white  coffin  in  which  he  helped  to  lay 
Patsy;  and  out  of  the  pockets  of  his  overcoat 
the  priest  brought  candles  for  Patsy's  head  and 
feet.  They  made  a  bier  of  two  yellow-painted 
kitchen  chairs,  and  laid  Patsy  in  his  little  white 
coffin  upon  it,  and  lighted  the  tapers,  and  the 
other  children  knelt  around  Patsy,  murmuring 
their  prayers  for  the  repose  of  his  soul.  It  was 
a  picture  —  a  great  picture :  the  gloomy  front 
room  where  the  sunshine  never  came ;  the  little 
bit  of  dazzling  whiteness  in  the  shadows,  that 
Patsy's  coffin  made ;  the  tall  tapers ;  the  tear- 
drenched  childish  faces  ;  the  awe  ;  the  Mystery. 

When  he  left,  the  priest  said  he  would  see 
what  he  could  do  about  the  funeral,  and  straight 
he  went  to  another  house  in  the  Nineteenth  Ward, 
where  also  a  son  lay  dead  and  many  hopes  were 
dead  with  him.  It  was  the  house  of  a  powerful 
Irish  politician  and  saloon-keeper,  and  the  son 
was  a  young  man  nineteen  years  old  and  the 


JUST  FOLKS  219 

pride  of  his  father's  heart  —  which  was,  after 
the  queer  fashion  of  human  nature,  no  less 
tender  because  his  conscience  was  full  of  callous 
spots.  The  priest  told  the  saloon-keeper  about 
Patsy,  drew  for  him  a  sympathetic  picture  of 
the  scene  he  had  just  left,  and  — 

"Sure,  he  can  come  along  with  my  boy," 
said  the  Boss.  "My  boy  was  always  one  to 
share  what  he  had  when  he  was  alive,  an'  I 
guess  he'd  be  more'n  glad  to  share  his  fun'ral  — 
the  last  thing  I  can  ever  give  him." 

So,  back  to  Henry  Street  the  priest  went,  and 
told  the  Caseys  that  Patsy  was  to  "come  along" 
in  the  rich  young  man's  funeral.  If  Pa  would 
carry  him  over  to  the  church  in  the  morning, 
before  ten,  he  was  welcome  to  share  in  the 
requiem  high  mass,  and  the  hundreds  of  tapers, 
and  the  loads  and  loads  of  flowers,  and  the 
grand,  expensive  singing.  He  was  welcome,  too, 
to  ride  to  Calvary  in  the  rich  young  man's 
hearse;  and  there'd  be  two  carriages  for  the 
parents  and  children  to  ride  in. 

When  Mary  heard  this,  her  tears  flowed 
afresh.  "Poor  little  Patsy!"  she  sobbed. 
"Seem  like  he  was  born  t'  be  lucky,  an'  he  died 
before  he  had  a  chance  t'  find  it  out." 

There  was  one  mark  of  respect  she  could 
show  him,  though  —  one  manifestation  of  her 
grief  she  could  afford  to  make :  she  sent  Midget 
to  Blue  Island  Avenue  with  twenty-five  cents 


220  JUST  FOLKS 

and  instructions  to  invest  it  in  "th'  bist  black 
dye."  And  into  the  wash-tub,  on  Midget's 
return,  went  the  package  of  dye  and  several 
pails  of  water  and  everything  belonging  to  the 
Caseys  that  could,  by  any  stretch  of  courtesy  or 
the  imagination,  be  called  a  garment. 

All  night  the  kitchen  hung  full  of  coats  and 
skirts  and  capes  and  pinafores,  all  dripping, 
dripping,  like  Mary's  slow,  unceasing  tears. 
And  in  the  morning  there  issued  from  the  Casey 
cellar  a  procession  as  sable-solemn  as  anything 
that  Henry  Street  had  ever  seen. 

It  was  a  "gran',  imprissive  fun'ral"  that  little 
Patsy  had.  And  when  the  Caseys  were  at  home 
again  and  the  neighbors  came  crowding  in  to 
hear  about  it,  the  wash-tub,  still  half  full  of  dye, 
was  standing  in  the  corner  on  the  kitchen  floor. 

"If  anny  o'  you,"  said  Mary,  indicating  the 
tub,  "'d  like  t'  use  some  o'  that,  yer  welcome. 
Patsy  had  a  fine  fun'ral  lint  'im,  an'  I'm  sure 
he'd  be  glad,  in  'is  turn,  t'  lind  some  o'  his 
mournin'." 

Which  was  how  a  considerable  part  of  Henry 
Street  may  be  said  to  have  gone  with  the  Caseys 
into  mourning  for  Patsy. 

"Of  course,"  said  Beth  to  Ferris,  telling  him 
about  the  myriad  "mourners,"  "their  motive 
was  economic,  not  emotional ;  but  perhaps  it's 
not  unlike  some  other  mourning  garb  on  that 
account." 


JUST  FOLKS  221 

Thus  Patsy  came  and  went.  The  span  be- 
tween whence  we  come  and  whither  we  go  is 
brief  at  best.  And  Patsy  managed  to  bring 
with  him  a  good  deal  of  the  tender  glory  of  the 
place  whence  he  came,  and  to  take  with  him  a 
great  deal  of  new  hope  of  the  place  whither  he 
was  gone.  And,  when  all  is  said  and  done, 
what  immortal  spirit  can,  in  its  mortal  span, 
do  more  than  that  for  itself  or  for  the  rest  of 
mortality  ? 

Except  with  her  mother,  hope  for  Angela  Ann 
had  died  a  lingering  death.  But  with  Mary, 
her  girl  that  was  gone  was  still  the  most  vital 
thing  in  life. 

The  first  time  she  came  to  see  Beth  after  the 
New  One  had  come  and  gone,  Mary  said,  with 
an  intensity  that  fairly  startled  Beth :  — 

"D'ye  know  what  I'm  prayin',  now  ?" 

"No.     What?" 

"  Ye'll  be  shocked  wid  me  —  ?" 

"Of  course  I  won't !  I  couldnH  be  shocked 
with  you." 

They  two  were  together  in  Beth's  little  bed- 
room, whither  Mary  felt  she  must  withdraw  out 
of  hearing  of  Liza  and  Adam,  when  she  wished 
to  speak  of  Angela. 

"I'm  prayin',"  she  said,  "that  Angela'll  git 
a  baby  —  a  little  bit  o'  baby !  Sure,  if  anny 
wan  'd  iver  toP  me  I'd  pray  that  about  a  girl  o' 


222  JUST  FOLKS 

mine  that's  not  married,  I'd  V  kilt  thim.  But 
don'  ye  see  ?  If  she'd  git  a  little  baby,  wouldn' 
it  be  a  lot  better  fer  'er  nor  goin'  t'  th'  bad  fer 
impty  plisure  ?  I  seen  t'ings  since  she  wint, 
Miss  Beth,  that  I  niver  dreamed  of  before  in  all 
my  life,  an'  I'm  prayin'  God  t'  sind  me  girl  a 
baby  that'll  wake  th'  bist  in  'er  an'  mebbe  t'ach 
'er  how  mothers  love  an'  bring  'er  home  agin 
t'  me." 

And  for  weary  weeks  thereafter,  Mary  cher- 
ished the  hope  of  Angela  Ann  coming,  trembling, 
along  the  board  walk  to  the  kitchen  door,  with 
her  baby  in  her  arms ;  and  the  thought  of  how 
surprised  she'd  be  at  the  gladness  of  her  wel- 
come; and  the  new  understanding  they  would 
have,  each  of  the  other  —  she  and  Angela  Ann 
—  in  their  common  motherhood. 


XII 


Mary  Casey  undoubtedly  had  a  great  deal 
to  stand ;  but  no  more  than  the  days  of  any 
other  mortal  with  an  inextinguishable  zest  for 
life,  were  hers  without  enlivening.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  was  one  of  the  best  evidences  of  Mary's 
truly  big  nature  that  she  never  neglected  any 
opportunity  for  diversion  that  came  her  way. 

Beth  and  Eleanor,  talking  her  over  as  they 
delighted  to  do  for  their  own  deeper  instruction 
in  the  wisdom  of  life,  could  not  sufficiently  extol 
her  elasticity  of  spirit.  But  it  solved,  of  course, 
what  might  otherwise  have  been  the  problem  of 
how  she  kept  herself  so  strong  to  bear. 

Even  in  the  midst  of  all  her  suffering  over 
Angela  Ann  and  her  gentler  grief  for  the  passing 
of  Patsy,  she  had  her  intervals  of  comedy  relief, 
her  alternation  of  smiles  with  tears.  Mary  Casey 
lived  too  deeply  and  truly  to  miss  any  essential 
element  of  life.  There  was  nothing  more  splen- 
didly real  about  her  than  the  way  shade  and  shine 
played  on  each  other's  heels  in  her  days. 

There  was,  for  instance,  the  relief  afforded  by 
the  Riordans,  a  numerous  clan  newly  moved  in 
upstairs.     Riordan  was   a  piano-mover  and  his 

223 


224  JUST  FOLKS 

prowess  was  the  pride  of  his  children;  he  had 
dreams  of  becoming  a  policeman,  some  day,  and 
the  Riordans  held  themselves  rather  mightily,  in 
consequence.  Mrs.  Riordan  also  was  endowed 
with  energy;   but  hers  was  chiefly  linguistic. 

It  was  the  tactlessness  of  Mis'  Shugar,  the 
Jewish  landlady,  which  started  things  wrong  for 
the  Caseys  and  Riordans.  "It  iss  Irish  peebles 
in  below  of  you,"  she  told  Mrs.  Riordan  when 
renting  to  her,  and  went  on  to  acquaint  her  with 
very  interesting  details  about  the  Caseys. 

Mrs.  Riordan  sniffed  —  and  the  sniff  was  a 
declaration  of  war.  "Theer's  mos'ly  low  Irish 
livin'  aroun'  here,"  she  said  loftily,  "an'  me  an' 
my  fam'ly  don'  take  up  wid  'em  at  all." 

Nevertheless,  she  plied  Mis'  Shugar  with  a 
number  of  questions  about  the  Caseys'  past  and 
present,  and  further  pursued  the  same  line  of 
investigation  with  the  Rubovitzes  —  mother  and 
children  —  and  the  Spiridovitches,  and  with  all 
the  others  of  her  new  neighbors  above  and  below 
and  beside,  who  could  "understan'  annythin' 
but  gibberish,"  as  Mrs.  Riordan  put  it.  Ac- 
cordingly, when  the  first  shot  was  fired  it  was 
from  a  full  arsenal  on  Mrs.  Riordan's  side,  and 
it  fell  into  an  unprepared  but  not  —  as  will  be 
seen  —  into  a  defenceless  camp  when  it  landed 
on  Mary  Casey  hanging  a  few  dingy-colored 
clothes  to  dry  in  the  low,  oozy  back  yard. 

What  landed  was  a  tin  handbasinful  of  dirty 


JUST  FOLKS  225 

water  wherein  several  small  Riordans  had  suc- 
cessively performed  compulsory  ablutions  —  to 
the  no  great  improvement  of  the  last  in  line. 
The  water  fell  with  a  splud,  not  a  foot  from  where 
Mary  Casey  stood,  and  part  of  it  splashed  mud 
up  on  her  low-hanging  sheets,  and  part  sprayed 
her. 

She  looked  up,  resentfully,  but  her  tone  was 
quiet  —  as  it  always  was  —  when  she  spoke. 
"That's  no  way  t'  be  doin',"  she  said,  "t'rowin' 
slops  on  a  body's  clane  clo'es." 

Mrs.  Riordan  was  ready.  "Clane?"  she 
sneered,  "clane  ?  Sure  I  t'ought  a  little  water'd 
do  thim  good." 

This  was  a  crucial  moment,  for  by  the  nature  of 
Mrs.  Casey's  reply  Mrs.  Riordan  could  judge 
whether  or  not  she  had  a  foeman  worthy  of  her 
steel. 

"It  might  'ave,"  returned  Mary,  imperturb- 
ably,  pointing  to  the  mud  bespattering  her  sheets, 
"if  ye  hadn'  washed  yer  face  in  it  first." 

Mrs.  Riordan  snorted  with  mingled  rage  and 
excitement ;  it  was  going  to  be  a  fine  fight ! 

The  hostilities  thus  opened  continued  briskly; 
hardly  an  hour  passed  without  some  sharp  skir- 
mishing, and  never  a  day  went  by  without  an 
engagement  of  sufficient  magnitude  to  be  called 
a  battle.  As  neither  participant-in-chief  ever 
entered  the  other's  flat,  and  both  of  them  used 
infrequently  the  inside  hall  of  pitchy  blackness 


226  JUST  FOLKS 

and  stairs  of  corkscrew  turnings  which  were 
"the  back  way"  to  the  dwellers  in  front  rooms 
and  "the  front  way"  to  dwellers  in  the  rear, 
most  of  the  action  took  place  in  the  yard  —  to 
the  no  small  satisfaction  of  those  neighbors  who 
lived  in  rear  rooms. 

The  offensive  attitude  was  Mrs.  Riordan's 
exclusively;  Mary  preferred  the  retort  to  the 
opening  fire.  "Anny  wan  can  begin  a  fight," 
she  said  to  those  partisans  of  hers  who  were  con- 
tinually suggesting  to  her  a  strategy  of  attack, 
"but  it  take  rale  brains  t'  finish  wan."  And  it 
was  observable  to  every  one  —  even  to  Mrs. 
Riordan  —  that  Mary  usually  did  the  finishing. 
Even  Pa  Casey's  admiration  was  compelled  by 
his  wife's  efficiency. 

Every  time  he  came  in  he  would  inquire  for  the 
latest  news  from  the  seat  of  war.  He  was  one 
of  the  chief  of  those  who  presumed  to  offer  Mary 
advice  as  to  how  she  should  conduct  her  cam- 
paign ;  but  his  advice  was  never  taken.  None 
the  less,  he  believed  himself  to  be  the  inspiration 
of  his  wife's  wittiest  retorts,  and  as  such  he 
bragged  loudly  at  O'Shaughnessy's  saloon.  This 
came  to  the  ears  of  Mrs.  Riordan  —  whose 
better  half  also  frequented  O'Shaughnessy's 
—  and  she  taunted  Mary  with  it. 

"Sure,"  said  Mary,  cheerfully,  "Casey  do  be 
a  great  hilp  t'  me.  He  fin'  out  from  Riordan, 
when    Riordan's    drunk,    what    ye're    practisin' 


JUST  FOLKS  227 

up  t'  say  t'  me ;  an'  whin  I  come  out  here  t'  min' 
me  bit  o'  business,  yer  spielin's  that  old  t'  me 
I  don'  bother  me  hid  wid  listenin'  til  it." 

This  untruth  cost  Riordan  a  warlike  evening 
and  caused  him  to  vent  his  injured  feelings  on 
Pa  Casey,  to  the  enlivening  of  a  jaded  hour  in 
O'Shaughnessy's  saloon. 

Much  incensed,  Pa  carried  the  fight  back  to 
Mary  on  whose  head  he  intended  the  brunt  of 
the  blow  should  fall,  like  a  properly  returned 
boomerang. 

"This  here  rag-chewin'  wid  the  Riordan 
woman's  got  to  stop!"  he  declared,  bringing 
his  stone-cutter's  fist  down  on  the  table  with  an 
emphasis  that  made  the  dishes  dance. 

Mary  eyed  him  scornfully ;  the  pride  of  the 
victor  was  in  her  veins  and  the  novel  sensation 
was  doing  her  a  world  of  good. 

"Got  t'  stop,  have  it?"  she  echoed.  "Well, 
I'll  tell  ye  how  t'  stop  it !  You  git  a  job,  an' 
stay  in  it.  Whin  ye're  workin'  stiddy  we  can 
move  out  o'  this  onhilthy  cellar,  an'  go  t'  some 
place  wheer  the  neighbors'll  have  t'  rayspict  us. 
What's  the  r'ason  a  woman  like  th'  Riordan 
woman  dare  t'  come  barkin'  aroun'  me  that  kin 
silence  'er  every  time,  an'  she  know  it  ?  On'y 
because  you  ain't  got  no  job,  an'  she  know  it ! 
On'y  because  yer  bye  Mikey's  in  the  refarm  school 
wheer  yer  drivin'  of  him  an'  continual  restin'  of 
yersilf  have  sint  him  —  an'  she  know  it !     On'y 


228  JUST  FOLKS 

because  we're  behin'  han'  wid  th'  rint  —  an'  she 
know  it !  An'  that  ixpinsive  iducation  ye're  after 
buyin'  fer  poor  little  Patsy  that  didn'  nade  it, 
's  goin'  t'  git  took  off  of  us  if  I  can't  skimp 
enough  out  o'  the  childern's  stum'cks  to  make 
a  paymint  on  't  nixt  wake  —  an'  she  know  it ! 
'Tain't  me  that  pervide  her  wid  subjicks  o'  con- 
versation ;  'tis  yersilf  !  An'  'tis  yersilf  that  kin 
stop  'er,  if  ye  want  'er  stopped  ! " 

There  was  always  a  fine  uncertainty1  how  Pa 
would  receive  a  thrust  like  this  ;  whether 
with  return  thrust,  lunging  viciously,  or  with 
parry,  discoursing  pathetically  on  the  times 
and  how  out  of  joint  they  are,  or  with  a  display 
of  nimble  dodging  which  caused  one's  ireful 
stroke  to  pierce  only  thin  air  instead  of  Pa's 
slothful  and  complacent  mind. 

This  time  he  dodged.  "Beats  all,"  he  philoso- 
phized, "how  women  will  pry  an'  gossip.  A  man 
have  no  peace  wid  'em  at  all  —  they're  always 
wantin'  t'  till  'im  what  the  woman  up-stairs  had 
on  whin  she  wint  t'  the  store,  er  how  wasteful 
she  pales  her  pitaties.  'Tis  no  kind  av  talk  at 
all  —  an'  if  a  man  want  to  hear  better,  he've 
got  t'  go  wheer  there's  no  women's  tongues 
a-waggin'." 

And,  with  an  aggrieved  manner,  Pa  put  on  his 
hat  and  went  up  to  O'Shaughnessy's. 

"Yer  pa  have  gran'  argymints,"  Mary  flung 
after   him   as   he  went  —  nominally   addressing 


JUST  FOLKS  229 

the  children,  but  actually  having  the  last  word 
with  Pa  —  "  sure,  'tis  one  o'  these  here  lawyers 
he  ought  t'  have  been  —  er  anny  job  wheer 
gab'll  git  ye  bread  an'  butter  an'  ye've  no  nade 
t'  work  at  all." 

But  Pa  was  gone  —  as  is  the  immemorial  way 
with  men  —  and  the  situation  in  the  Casey 
household  remained  just  about  what  the  situation 
had  been  since  the  Casey  household  began  to  be. 

"That's  all  ye'll  iver  git  out  o'  Pa!"  ob- 
served Johnny,  bitterly.  "Whin  ye  tell  'im  yer 
hungry,  he  put  on  his  hat  an'  go  t'  O'Shaugh- 
nessy's  an'  spind  his  las'  quarter  gittin'  drunk." 

Mary  looked  at  her  son.  The  harsh  contempt 
in  his  voice,  the  sharp  disgust  in  his  boyish, 
almost  childish,  face,  with  its  dimples  that  were 
made  for  smiles,  hurt  her  intolerably. 

"Johnny,"  she  said,  "our  Mikey  ain'  goin'  t' 
git  out  o'  wheer  he  is  fer  quite  a  long  time.  An' 
Ang'la  Ann  may  not  come  back  fer  a  while.  We 
can't  go  on  livin'  like  this,  an'  theer's  on'y  two 
t'ings  I  can  t'ink  of  that  we  kin  do.  Wan  o' 
thim  is  that  I  kin  git  some  dishwashing  t'  do  in 
some  restyraunt  on  Twelfth  Street,  like  I  used  t' 
do,  er  go  down  town  nights  t'  scrub  buildin's  ;  and 
th'  other  is  t'  try  an'  git  you  leave  t'  work.  I'm 
after  talkin'  t'  Miss  Tully  about  it,  an'  she  say 
she'll  spake  t'  th'  fact'ry  inspicter  about  ye.  An' 
I'm  t'  take  ye  over  theer  an'  show  ye  to  'im,  till 
he  see  does  he  want  t'  lit  ye  work." 


230  JUST  FOLKS 

"  I  want  t'  work,  all  right,"  said  Johnny,  with 
a  bluff,  brave  tone  and  a  manly  hitching  of  his 
trousers  which,  we  all  know,  is  sure  outward  evi- 
dence that  something  conclusive  has  happened 
in  the  male  mind. 

His  mother  went  to  the  dark  closet  off  the 
"front"  bedroom  and  after  some  deep  delving 
reappeared  with  a  half-dozen  nondescript  things 
which  she  ranged  in  review  on  the  kitchen  table. 
Close  inspection  would  have  revealed  them  to  be 
the  battered  and  weather-beaten  remains  of 
what  had  once  been  hats  —  all  "hand-downs" 
from  a  variety  of  sources  and  none  of  them  at  any 
time  nicely  related  to  Mary's  looks  or  needs. 
One  after  the  other,  she  scrutinized  them. 

"What  are  them  for?"  asked  Johnny. 

"That's  what  I  can't  tell  ye,"  his  mother 
replied.  "They're  the  last  o'  the  Morgans, 
I'm  thinkin',  an'  if  I  kin  fin'  wan  o'  thim  that  won' 
scare  a  man,  I'm  goin'  t'  take  you  t'  the  mogul 
that  have  so  much  t'  say  about  who'll  work  an' 
who  will  not." 

Mrs.  Riordan  saw  them  when  they  went  out. 
"Seems  t'  me,"  she  observed,  hanging  over  her 
porch  rail  in  a  leisurely  way  that  belied  her 
energetic  preachment,  "  that  some  folks'd  better 
stay  home  an'  do  their  week's  wash  —  which 
they  ain't  touched  yet  —  instid  av  gallivantin' 
out  wid  fithered  bunnits  on  'em." 

Mary  looked  up  at  her  and  smiled,  showing 


JUST  FOLKS  231 

her  sad  lack  of  teeth.  "Work  is  fer  thimthat 
has  to,"  she  said  loftily,  "as  fer  me,  I'm  livin' 
on  th'  intrust  o'  me  money." 

The  factory  inspector  was  one  of  those  rare 
mortals,  a  reformer  with  a  sense  of  humor.  He 
listened  with  infinite  appreciation  to  Mary's 
recital  of  the  reasons  why  it  was  necessary  for 
Johnny  to  have  a  job,  and  his  face  was  a  study 
in  repression  when  she  came  to  the  tale  of  the 
Cyclopaedia. 

"Your  husband  must  be  a  most  unusual  sort 
of  man,"  he  remarked  gravely.  He  had  been 
fully  posted  by  Beth  on  the  Casey  history. 

"Humph!"  said  Mary,  "I've  seen  plinty  o' 
the  same  sort,  in  my  time ;  the  ,woods  is  pritty 
full  o'  thim,  on  Hinry  Strate ;  'tis  the  commonist 
complaint  we've  got." 

"I  don't  mean  his  laziness,"  the  inspector  has- 
tened to  explain  ;  "I  mean  his  love  of  learning." 

Mary's  look  was  scathing.  "Ye  mane  his 
love  o'  showin'  off,  I  guess.  If  theer  was  on'y 
some  way  he  could  arn  his  livin'  be  showin'  off, 
sure  no  wan  could  bate  him  to  it.  'Tis  a  pity  you 
that's  so  smart  t'  till  childern  they  shan't  work 
an'  kape  from  starvin',  couldn'  have  a  daypart- 
mint  t'  till  min  like  Casey  they  shan't  ate  —  ner 
drink  —  onliss  they  work." 

"You  could  have  him  putin  jail,"  suggested  the 
inspector. 


232  JUST  FOLKS 

"Thank  ye,"  said  Mary,  "I've  wan  in  jail 
now,  an'  I  don'  find  it  no  aid  t'  me  income." 

The  inspector  admitted  the  force  of  this  argu- 
ment.    "Well,"  he  said,  "I  can  get  him  a  job  — " 

"He  kin  git  hisself  a  job,  a'  right,"  Mary  in- 
terrupted. "What  he  nade  is  a  law  t'  make  him 
kape  it!" 

"There  couldn't  be  a  law  like  that,"  the 
inspector  explained;  "it  would  be  an  injustice 
to  a  lot  of  men  who  had  good  reason  for  wanting 
to  quit  their  jobs.  But  I  wouldn't  be  above  a 
little  deceit  with  Casey  —  I  wouldn't  mind  trying 
to  make  him  believe  there  was  such  a  law — " 
(this  was  part  of  a  plot  laid  with  Beth). 

"You  couldn'  do  it !"  said  Mary,  promptly 

"Let  me  try,"  he  begged,  smiling.  "Before 
we  put  Johnny,  here,  to  work  while  he  ought 
to  be  in  school  learning,  and  out  doors  playing 
ball  and  growing  big  and  strong  so  he  won't  be 
like  poor  Mikey  that  you  tell  about,  let  me  see 
if  I  can't  do  something  with  Pa." 

Mary's  easy  hopefulness  grasped  at  this  offer. 
"If  ye  on'y  could,  now,"  she  murmured  grate- 
fully. "  Ye've  no  idare  what  a  fine  man  Casey'd 
be,  if  he  could  just  git  it  into  his  hid  that  he 
wanted  t'  work." 

"Well,  I'll  be  around  to  see  him  this  evening, 
about  supper  time.  *And  all  you  and  Johnny 
have  got  to  do  is  not  to  let  on  that  you've  ever 
seen  me  before." 


JUST  FOLKS  233 

"Sure,  we'll  do  that,"  said  Mary.  "But  ye 
ain't  manein'  him  anny  harm,  are  ye  ?  I 
wouldn'  do  nothin'  t'  l'ave  him  be  harmed.  He 
do  vex  me,  at  times,  an'  make  t'ings  hard  fer  the 
childern,  but  theer  ain't  nothin'  bad  about  him." 

The  inspector  assured  her  that  he  meant  no 
possible  harm  to  Pa.  "But  I  think  I  can  get 
him  a  job,"  he  said,  "and  if  I  do,  perhaps  I  can 
make  him  believe  he's  got  to  keep  it." 

Accordingly,  that  evening  when  the  family  was 
at  supper,  an  important-looking  gentleman  called, 
looking  for  Patrick  Casey.  The  Cairo  and 
Chicago  R.  R.,  he  said,  was  building  a  new  bridge 
over  the  Sandstone  River  at  Monovia,  Illinois. 
An  additional  stone-cutter  was  needed  for  work 
on  the  piers,  and  the  company,  having  heard  of 
the  excellence  of  Mr.  Casey's  work,  had  sent  to 
offer  the  job  to  him. 

Pa  glanced  around  the  family  circle  to  make 
sure  they  realized  what  was  happening,  and 
after  due  consideration  and  discussion  of  ways 
and  means  —  and  wages  —  accepted. 

"Good!"  said  the  caller  as  if  now  his  mind 
were  at  rest  about  the  safety  of  the  bridge.  "I 
have  the  company's  contract  with  me,  Mr. 
Casey,  all  ready  for  your  signature."  And  he 
produced  a  formidable-looking  document,  much 
ornamented  with  red  and  gilt  seals,  and  a  silver- 
scrolled  fountain-pen. 


234  JUST  FOLKS 

"Contrack  ?"  said  Pa,  his  eyes  opening  wide 
at  the  sight,  "I  ain't  niver  signed  no  contrack 
before." 

The  inspector  looked  surprised.  "Well,  prob- 
ably not,"  he  admitted,  "but  I  should  think  a 
man  of  your  well-known  skill  would  always  have 
insisted  on  it.  What  right  has  any  corporation 
to  approach  you  with  a  request  to  work  for  it, 
to  ask  you  to  leave  your  family  and  go  to  Mono- 
via,  without  giving  you  its  legally-attested 
guarantee  that  when  you  get  there  you  will  find 
the  work  as  described  to  you  ?  This  contract  pro- 
vides that  the  company  furnish  you  with  free 
transportation  to  Monovia ;  that  it  pay  you  the 
union  scale  for  stone-cutting  during  all  the 
time  you  are  in  its  employ ;  and  it  assures  you 
employment  every  day  for  a  period  of  not  less 
than  six  months.  It  is  not  often,  Mr.  Casey,  that 
a  man  of  your  known  abilities  will  accept  a  posi- 
tion without  a  contract.  In  the  professional  and 
higher  mercantile  worlds,  no  one  would  dream 
of  so  doing.  Why,  then,  should  the  skilled 
laborer  be  asked  to  do  less  ?" 

"That's  what  I've  niver  been  able  t'  see!" 
said  Pa,  indignantly,  as  he  reached  for  the  pen 
to  sign  his  name.  He  had  the  air  of  a  states- 
man to  whom  has  come  at  last  the  moment 
when  what  he  has  long  contended  for  needs 
only  his  signature  to  become  a  law.  It  was  a 
breathless  moment  in  the  Caseys'  family  history, 


JUST  FOLKS  23s 

and  no  one  enjoyed  it  so  much  as  Pa  —  not 
even  Mary. 

"I'll  be  around  in  the  morning,  Mr.  Casey,"  the 
inspector  said,  "and  take  you  down  to  the  depot 
and  introduce  you  to  the  company's  agent." 

When  he  was  gone,  the  Caseys  sat  for  a  few 
seconds  in  a  silence  no  one  of  them  dared  to 
break.  Then  Pa,  looking  scornfully  at  the 
meagre  supper  table,  said  :  — 

"Johnny,  go  up  t'  Schmidinger's  an'  git  two 
lemon  cream  pies,  on  me  word." 

After  supper,  Pa  got  together  his  tools,  left 
explicit  orders  about  having  his  "things  washed 
up,"  and  went  to  O'Shaughnessy's,  wearing,  as  he 
went,  such  an  insufferably  swaggering  air  that  it 
was  a  foregone  conclusion  he  would  not  be  in  the 
genial  atmosphere  of  O'Shaughnessy's  longer 
than  five  minutes  before  some  one  essayed  to 
take  the  swagger  out  of  him. 

Some  one  did ;  they  all  did  !  They  scoffed 
at  his  "contrack";  they  suggested  that  the 
inspector  was  a  "fly  cop"  and  it  was  a  warrant 
for  his  own  arrest  that  Pa  had  signed ;  they 
hinted  that,  failing  the  warrant,  it  was  "some 
kind  o'  bunk";  they  intimated  that  if  any  one 
present  had  a  gold  brick,  Pa  would  be  a  likely 
purchaser;  they  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  seen 
the  explosion  on  the  lake  front  and  if  he'd  heard 
the  Masonic  Temple  was  for  sale. 

At  first,  Pa  tried  to  joke  with  them,  to  twit 


236  JUST  FOLKS 

them  as  being  jealous,  and  the  like.  But  in  a 
little  while  he  grew  as  angry  as  they  desired  and 
drank  as  much  as  O'Shaughnessy  considered  his 
credit  was  "good  for." 

Then  he  went  home,  where  the  children  were 
all  asleep  and  Mary  was  still  bending  over  the 
wash-tub,  and  gave  Mrs.  Riordan  (through  the 
ceiling,  which  also  was  her  kitchen  floor)  a  de- 
tailed recital  of  his  wrongs. 

In  the  morning,  when  the  inspector  came, 
Pa  refused  to  go.  The  inspector  appealed  to 
Mr.  Casey.  Would  he  go  back  on  his  word  ? 
Would  he  leave  the  railroad  in  the  lurch  ?  Had 
he  no  sense  of  the  responsibility  of  that  bridge, 
over  which  so  many  persons  would  be  carried 
that  the  safety  of  its  stone  piers  was  of  the  very 
gravest  importance  to  thousands  of  human 
lives  ?  Pa  considered  none  of  these  things. 
Then  the  inspector  was  sorry,  but  firm.  Mr. 
Casey  had  signed  a  contract ;  the  law  would 
expect  him  to  fulfil  it.  And  the  inspector  opened 
his   coat   and   displayed   an   authoritative   star. 

Pa  went.  Mrs.  Riordan  was  hanging  over 
her  porch  rail  and  saw  them  go. 

"Is  yer  man  pinched,  too  ?"  she  asked  Mary. 

"Why,  no!"  said  Mary,  "is  yours?  Whin 
was  he  took  ? " 

The  job  at  Monovia  proved  genuine  enough, 
as  Pa  discovered  on  arriving  there.     The  town 


JUST  FOLKS  237 

was  a  miserable  little  "dump"  which  existed 
only  because  of  the  great  mine  of  bituminous 
coal  that  was  practically  its  sole  industry  and 
excuse  for  being.  There  were  miners'  cottages  — 
some  squalid,  and  some  as  neat  and  nearly 
attractive  as  the  bleak  and  black  surroundings 
would  allow ;  and  a  proportion  of  saloons  which 
astonished  even  Pa ;  these,  with  a  couple  of 
"general"  stores,  comprised  Monovia.  The 
workmen  on  the  C.  and  C.  bridge,  just  beyond 
the  tiny  town,  were  quartered  in  a  construction 
train  of  freight-cars.  Skilled  workmen,  who 
could  earn  four  dollars  a  day,  did  not  relish  this ; 
it  incensed  them  to  be  put,  apparently,  on  a  level 
with  the  "dagoes"  who  shovelled  dirt.  Hence 
the  ease  with  which  the  factory  inspector  got 
the  job  for  Pa. 

The  contractor's  foreman  at  the  bridge  had 
no  particular  sense  of  humor,  but  he  had  a  great 
desire  to  get  his  stone  piers  in.  So,  when  the 
"contrack"  was  passed  on  to  him,  with  explana- 
tions, he  welcomed  it  as  a  possible  way  of 
keeping  one  stone-cutter  with  him. 

Accordingly,  when  Pa  "threw  a  bluff"  and 
declared  he  was  going  to  leave,  the  foreman  pro- 
duced that  formidable-looking  document  with 
all  its  red  and  gold  seals,  and  laid  down  to  Pa  the 
"law"  about  violation  of  contract.  A  fellow- 
workman  to  whom  Pa  confided  his  dilemma, 
was  very  sceptical,  and  advised  Pa  to  consult  a 


m 


23  8  JUST  FOLKS 

lawyer.  But  Pa  had  no  sense  of  lawyers  as 
persons  who  might  get  one  out  of  trouble  — 
only  as  persons  who  were  zealous  to  get  one  deeper 
in  ;  and  besides,  there  was  no  lawyer  at  Monovia. 
So  Pa  stayed. 

He  wrote  home,  sometimes,  and  every  now 
and  then  he  sent  some  money.  There  was  noth- 
ing regular  about  his  remittances  and  they  had 
but  a  meagre  ratio  to  his  earnings.  But  Mary 
was  not  used  to  regularity,  nor  to  sufficiency. 
And  she  was  looking  forward  hopefully  to  the 
time  when  Mikey  "would  be  let  out,"  and  to 
the  home-coming  of  Angela  Ann. 

Her  unfaltering  faith  in  the  latter  event  was 
wonderful.  It  was  the  dream  of  her  life,  now, 
to  have  the  "parlie"  ready  when  Angela  Ann 
came  back. 

"It  have  always  been  my  belafe,"  she  told 
Beth,  "that  if  we'd  had  a  parlie  the  poor  little 
t'ing  wouldn't  niver  'a'  wint  away.  Ag'in  she 
come  home,  I'm  goin'  t'  kape  the  parlie  nice  far 
'er  an'  not  l'ave  the  kids  muss  it  up.  An'  I 
ain'  goin'  t'  l'ave  'er  go  down  town  t'  work  no 
more  —  theer's  too  manny  bad  min.  She  kin 
stay  home  an'  mind  th'  house,  an'  I'll  git  scrub- 
bin'  t'  do.  Wid  what  her  pa  sind,  now  an'  thin, 
an'  what  I  earn,  an'  what  Mikey  make  ag'in  he 
git  out,  an'  Johnny  goin'  t'  work  before  so  very 
long,  we  kin  mebbe  give  her  a  dollar  a  wake  fer 
'er   clo'es    an'   spindin'   money.     An'   Kate   an' 


JUST  FOLKS  239 

Pete's  goin'  t'  take  her  t'  th'  theaytre  rale  fray- 
quint  —  an'  Maggie  an'  Tim'll  do  what  they 
kin  fer  'er  —  an'  by  'n  'by  whin  she  git  cheered 
up  good,  an'  some  nice  young  felly  that  mane 
right  by  'er  come  around,  I'm  goin'  t'  l'ave  'er 
'ave  'im  in  th'  parlie  ivry  night,  an'  no  wan  t' 
bother  thim." 

Beth  could  hardly  keep  her  tears  back  when 
she  thought  how  little  likely  all  this  was  to 
come  to  pass.  But  she  never  let  breath  of  her 
unbelief  dull  Mary's  hopes.  And  between  them, 
she  and  Eleanor  begged  quite  a  collection  of 
finery  for  the  parlie.  Then,  one  night  after  the 
other  children  were  abed,  Mary  and  Johnny 
washed  the  dirty  blue  kalsomine  off  the  walls ; 
and  another  night  they  had  much  amusement 
putting  on  a  new  coat  which  the  man  in  the 
paint  store  "on  Blue  Islan'"  had  mixed  for  them. 
He  lent  them  a  brush,  for  a  nickel  extra ;  and  if, 
when  the  brush  came  back  again,  he  regretted 
his  bargain,  he  didn't  say  so.  The  pathos  of 
the  parlie  must  have  got  into  his  heart,  too. 

The  color  of  the  new  kalsomine  was  green.  A 
newspaper  story  of  Hart  Ferris's  brought  several 
offers  of  discarded  bookcases,  one  of  which  was 
accepted  for  the  Cyclopaedia.  The  same  source 
yielded  a  stuffed  sofa  and  two  or  three  chairs  — 
one  a  patent  rocker.  Eleanor  begged  a  lamp 
and  some  curtains.  Beth  manoeuvred  the  ac- 
quisition of  a  carpet-rug,   not  new,  but  amply 


240  JUST  FOLKS 

satisfying.  Mary  made  one  purchase.  A 
second-hand  store  on  Halsted  Street  displayed 
a  gorgeous  gilt  and  plush  frame  with  an  "air 
brush"  enlargement  of  some  lady  of  the  Nine- 
teenth Ward  —  or  elsewhere  —  who  was  de- 
ceased, or  supplanted  and  forgotten. 

Beth  was  a  bit  staggered  when  she  saw  this. 
"Who  is  the  lady,  Mary  ?"   she  asked. 

"Sure,  I  dunno,"  said  Mary.  "But  she's  a 
nice-lookin'  lady,  an'  I  got  it  chape,  an'  I  t'ought 
it'd  look  rale  drissy  fer  a  parlie  —  seein'  we've 
no  enlargemints  of  our  own." 

Beth  gasped.  Then  she  recollected  how  ex- 
actly similar  were  her  reasons  for  owning  as 
her  sole  art  treasures  a  carbon  photograph  of 
Mona  Lisa  and  a  little  plaster  cast  of  Venus  of 
Melos. 

Thus  the  parlie  progressed,  to  the  envy  of 
Mrs.  Riordan  and  the  Rubovitzes,  and  the  great 
consolation  of  Mary. 

One  night  toward  the  end  of  March,  Johnny 
came  in  with  a  "Last  and  Sporting  Extra"  of  a 
penny  paper  committed  to  the  belief  in  lurid 
text  and  large  headlines.  It  was  the  baseball 
scores  and  the  "gossip  of  the  ringside,"  along 
with  the  minor  delight  of  the  comic  pictures, 
that  made  this  sheet  dear  to  Johnny,  and  he  sat 
poring  over  these  while  he  ate  his  supper. 

On  the  front  sheet  of  that  part  of  the  paper 
for  which  Johnny,  save  in  a  bored  emergency, 


JUST  FOLKS  241 

had  no  use,  particularly  large  headlines  in  black 
and  in  red  stared  at  Mary  as  she  laid  down  his 
plate. 

"What  do  thim  large  letters  say?"  she  in- 
quired, pointing  to  them.  Experience  had  taught 
her  that  they  usually  bespoke  a  sensation  out  of 
the  ordinary. 

With  a  "  What's-the-use  ?"  expression,  Johnny 
laid  down  his  vital  statistics  and  cast  an 
"easy-reading  eye"  on  the  headlines.  "It 
say:  'Awful  Mine  Horror.  Four  Hundred 
Miners  En  —  En— '" 

"In  what?" 

"In  nothin'  —  I  can't  make  it  out  —  en  — " 

Mary  looked  at  her  son.  "Johnny  Casey, 
d'ye  mane  t'  till  me  that  you  can't  rade  printin' 
the  size  o'  that  —  an'  you  been  to  school  these 
siven  er  eight  years  ?" 

"Aw,"  said  Johnny,  "  I  kin  rade  the  letters, 
a'  right,  but  I  don't  know  what  they  mane. 
E— N— T— O— M— B— E— D." 

"Well,  no  more  do  I.     What  do  it  say  nixt  ?" 

"  —  in  a  burnin'  mine.  Four  hundred  miners 
somethin'  in  a  burnin'  mine." 

"  Fer  th'  love  o'  God  !    Wheer  ? " 

Johnny  looked.  "Why,  at  that  place  wheer 
Pa  be,"  he  said,  and  went  on  to  read  out,  rather 
laboriously,  the  first,  generally  descriptive  lines 
about  the  catastrophe. 

Mary's  face  blanched  with  horror  as  he  read 


242  JUST  FOLKS 

of  the  miners  trapped  in  the  crypt-like  chambers 
and  passageways  of  the  blazing  mine;  of  the 
frantic  women  and  children  gathered  at  the 
mine's  mouth ;  and  of  the  deadly  gases  that 
drove  back  daring  rescuers. 

"Think  o'  that,  now!"  she  said,  "an'  thank 
God  yer  pa  work  wid  th'  blissid  sky  above 
'im!" 

Dewey  came  in  from  his  play  in  the  street, 
for  a  moment,  and  stood  listening.  Little  Annie, 
conscious  of  something  unusual,  clutched  at  her 
mother's  skirts. 

Johnny,  loving  the  intentness  of  his  audience, 
read  on ;  read  how,  in  the  face  of  almost  certain 
death,  a  few  rescuers  had  finally  gone  down  into 
the  mine;  how,  before  going,  they  had  written 
brief  notes  of  farewell  and  left  them  to  be  de- 
livered if  the  rescuers  perished  with  them  they 
sought  to  save. 

At  this  point,  Mary  cried  out  inarticulately, 
but  in  unmistakable  anguish.  Johnny  stopped 
reading  and  looked  at  her  inquiringly. 

"If  —  if  yer  pa  was  wan  o'  thim,"  she  said. 

Johnny  turned  again  to  his  paper.  "Aw," 
he  answered,  in  a  manner  meant  to  be  re- 
assuring, "Pa  wouldn'  go  down  in  no  burnin' 


mine." 


"Hold  yer  tongue  agin  yer  pa  !"  his  mother 
ordered  him,  grasping  him  by  the  shoulders  and 
shaking  him  resentfully.     "Theer's  manny  that 


JUST  FOLKS  243 

ain't  got  the  courage  t'  live  as  they  ought, 
that's  got  the  courage  t'  die  brave  an'  splindid. 
Look  sharp,  now,  an'  see  if  it  don't  till  who  those 
min  were." 

Johnny  looked,  but  nowhere  was  the  name 
Casey  to  be  seen.  In  fact,  few  names  of  any 
kind  appeared  in  the  account,  which  was  rushed 
on  to  the  wires  too  soon  after  the  breaking  out 
of  the  fire  to  make  any  details  possible. 

But  Mary  was  not  consoled.  "I've  a  feelin'," 
she  insisted,  "that  he's  wan  o'  thim.  Iver  since 
I  know  yer  pa  I've  ixpicted  'im  t'  do  somethin' 
like  it.  Fer  ivry  girl  do  drame  of  a  hero,  an' 
ivry  bride  do  t'ink  she's  gittin'  wan.  An'  whin 
the  years  wint  by,  an'  yer  pa  didn'  give  no  life- 
like riprisintation  of  a  hero,  I  niver  los'  faith  in 
'im  altogither.  'He'll  do  it  yit,'  I'd  always  say 
t'  mesilf.  'Some  heroes  makes  theer  chances, 
an'  some  has  t'  wait  till  theer  chance  come. 
He's  evidently  wan  o'  thim  that  have  t'  wait. 
Don't  you  niver  give  'im  up  fer  good,'  I'd  till 
mesilf,  'until  you  know  he's  had  his  chance  an' 
hasn'  took  it.'  If  he  was  workin'  theer,  close  by 
that  mine  wheer  thim  poor  min  was  shut  in  an' 
burnin'  t'  death,  he's  gon'  down  t'  bring  thim 
up  —  you  mark  me  words  !  God  know  the  fear 
that's  in  me  heart  this  minute  !  But  God  know, 
too,  the  worse  than  fear  that  would  be  theer  if 
I  had  t'  belave  me  Patsy'd  had  his  chance  an 
hadn'  took  it!" 


244  JUST  FOLKS 

That  was  a  night  of  vigil  in  the  Casey  home. 
The  children  slept,  as  children  can;  but  Mary 
sat  in  her  black  kitchen  the  long  night  through 
—  fearful,  triumphant ;  thinking,  thinking. 

When  her  window-pane  paled  to  gray,  she 
opened  the  back  door  softly,  and  stole  out  to 
the  corner  to  look  for  a  paper.  But  it  was  too 
early  for  newsboys  or  for  those  little  shops  which 
sold  papers  on  Blue  Island  Avenue.  So  Mary 
went  back  and  waited.  If  there  was  one  thing 
life  had  taught  her  even  more  perfectly  than 
many  others,  it  was  to  wait.  At  six  o'clock 
she  went  to  the  corner  again  and  found  a 
boy. 

Back  in  her  kitchen  she  spread  the  paper  out 
and  looked  at  the  pictures  which  were  self- 
evidently  about  that  part  of  it  wherein  her  in- 
terest centred.  Then,  unable  to  wait  longer, 
she  woke  Johnny  and  brought  him,  rubbing  his 
eyes  sleepily,  out  to  the  kitchen  to  tell  her 
what  it  said. 

Johnny  doused  his  face  with  cold  water  at 
the  sink,  and  that  helped  a  little.  But  when  he 
turned  to  the  paper  he  was  dismayed.  "Theer's 
pages  an'  pages  about  it,"  he  said. 

"I'd  like  t'  hear  it  all,"  his  mother  replied 
wistfully,  abut  can't  ye  fin'  that  place  first 
wheer  it  till  about  thim  riscuers  ?" 

Johnny  didn't  know  if  he  could,  but  he'd  try. 
He  bent  over  the  outspread  sheets  and  scanned 


JUST  FOLKS  245 

the  columns  anxiously.     Mary's  patient  inten- 
sity was  pitiful  to  see. 

Finally,  "Here  it  is,"  he  said.  Mary's  heart 
seemed  to  stop  beating.  "'No  word  of  the 
brave  rescuers  who  went  down  into  the  burning 
mine  has  come  to  the  surface  since  they  made 
their  daring  descent,  and  it  is  feared  all  have 
perished.'"  Mary  moaned.  "'As  nearly  all  the 
able-bodied  men  in  town  were  in  the  mine  at 
the  time  of  the  accident,  the  rescuers  were  re- 
cruited mainly  from  the  workmen  engaged  in 
building  the  new  C.  and  C.  bridge  over  the  Sand- 
stone River  at  Monovia.'" 

"What'dltillye?"  she  cried. 

"'Among  these,'"  read  Johnny,  and  spelled 
out  several  names ;  then,  with  a  queer  little  cry 
that  was  half  pride  and  half  despair,  he  pointed 
with  his  forefinger  to  the  place,  as  if  thus  to 
verify  what  he  read:  '"Patrick  Casey,  of  Chi- 
cago—  21  Henry  Street  —  who  was  employed 
as  a  stone-cutter  on  the  C.  and  C.  bridge.'" 

He  looked  up  at  his  mother.  The  other 
children  had  been  wakened,  had  got  out  of  bed, 
and  were  standing  about  her,  looking  at  her  too. 
They  had  seen  their  mother  meet  many  an 
emergency,  but  they  had  never  seen  her  look 
like  this.  Her  stooping  figure  seemed  straight- 
ened ;  there  was  a  flush  in  her  thin,  sallow 
cheeks ;  tears  were  dropping  from  her  eyes,  but 
underneath   the   tears   her    eyes    flashed.     She 


246  JUST  FOLKS 

reached  down  and  snatched  up  Annie  and 
strained  the  child  to  her  bosom  with  a  splendid 
passion  of  maternity. 

"Childern,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  broke  in 
sobs  that  had,  somehow,  a  note  of  triumph  in 
them,  "  down  on  yer  knees,  an'  ivry  wan  av  us'll 
pray  th'  Blissid  Vargin  t'  presarve  yer  father  — 
that's  a  —  hero." 

Before  breakfast  was  well  over,  all  that  part 
of  Henry  Street  which  can  read  newspapers, 
and  all  that  part  which  can  understand  if  it 
cannot  read  English,  knew  about  Pa  Casey; 
and  a  steady  stream  of  curious  and  sympathiz- 
ing callers  flowed  along  the  narrow  passageway 
between  the  Caseys'  tenement  and  the  one  next 
door.  Most  of  them  were  dumfounded  at  what 
they  saw.  Mary's  spirit  had  communicated 
itself  to  her  children,  and  there  was  none  of 
that  loud  lamentation  which  Henry  Street  had 
expected,  and  hoped,  to  see  and  hear.  It  was 
an  awed  and  quiet  household.  Tears  welled 
frequently  in  every  eye  —  especially  when  neigh- 
bors who  were  bent  on  excitement  and  disap- 
pointed at  finding  none  sought  to  create  it  by 
dwelling  on  what  must  be  the  horrors  of  that 
death  in  a  pit  of  flames,  which  was  Pa's  death 
—  but,  following  Mary's  example,  even  the 
children  wiped  them  silently  away. 

"She  took  it  awful  calm,"  criticised  one  neigh- 
bor, coming  away.    "I  don'  b'leeve  she  care  much." 


JUST  FOLKS  247 

"Well,"  reminded  another,  a  trifle  more  in- 
clined to  charity,  "he  was  small  good  t'  her  er 
anny  wan.  Maybe  'tis  kind  of  a  relafe  he's 
gon\" 

Nobody  seemed  to  understand  —  Mary's  own 
kin  as  little  as  the  rest  —  but  the  sympathy 
that  helped  most,  next  to  Beth's,  came  from 
some  of  the  Russian  Jew  women  who  had  them- 
selves known  the  horror  of  an  awful  death  for 
those  they  loved,  in  Kishinev  and  Kief. 

Mary's  sister  Maggie  and  her  husband,  Tim 
Kavanagh,  were  early  on  the  scene,  trying  to 
make  Mary  see  how  she  wouldn't  be  much  worse 
off,  "whin  Mikey  git  out ;  an'  now  that  Johnny'll 
soon  be  able  t'  git  a  stiddy  job." 

Once,  something  blazed  in  Mary's  eyes  for  a 
moment ;  she  was  almost  on  the  point  of  trying 
to  tell  these  Kavanaghs.  But  the  hopelessness 
of  making  them  understand,  caused  her  to  hold 
her  tongue. 

It  was  when  the  reporters  began  coming  that 
Mary  gave  the  shock  of  their  lives  to  the  Kava- 
naghs. "The  account  o'  Pat  Casey  she  gave 
to  those  min,  was  somethin'  ye  wouldn'  belave" 
as  Tim  Kavanagh  said,  in  telling  about  it  after- 
wards, to  Pete  Foley. 

Hart  Ferris  explained  to  her  how,  if  her  hus- 
band's body  was  recovered,  it  might  not  be 
known  for  his  unless  she  could  help  to  identify 
it.     He  said  he  would  send  word  to  her,  as  soon 


248  JUST  FOLKS 

as  it  came  into  the  newspaper  offices,  when  any- 
bodies were  recovered,  but  that  probably  she 
could  never  get  her  husband's  remains  unless 
she  could  pick  them  out  from  among  the  heaps 
of  unidentified  dead. 

"Sure,  I  could  niver  git  to  —  that  place, 
wheeriver  it  is,"  she  said. 

"We'll  fix  that !"  he  told  her.  And  "fix  it" 
he  did.  The  evening's  paper  contained  descrip- 
tions of  the  Casey  home  that  set  Henry  Street 
agog  with  interest  —  some  proud,  some  full  of 
contemptuous  dissent  —  and  subscriptions  to 
help  send  Mary  Casey  to  Monovia  poured  in 
generously.  Yes,  and  many  callers  came  — 
some,  as  Johnny  said,  "jest  t'  rubber"  and  a 
few  to  offer  assistance. 

There  was  one  subject  Mary  was  careful  not 
to  mention  to  any  reporter  —  and  that  was 
Mikey  in  the  reform  school.  "'Tis  few,  ye 
might  say,  that  know  'bout  it,"  she  explained 
to  Beth,  "an'  the  fewer  the  better  for  Mikey 
whin  'tis  all  past  an'  behint  him."  But  she 
stole  away  to  the  School  (which  was  less  than 
two  miles  away),  and  on  telling  her  story  to  the 
sympathetic  warden,  got  permission  to  see 
Mikey  —  not  in  the  wire  cage  where  visiting 
was  usually  permitted,  but  in  the  warden's 
private  office. 

"Ye've  t'ought  hard  o'  yer  pa,  manny  times, 
Mikey   bye,"    she    said;    "an'    often    I   couldn' 


JUST  FOLKS  249 

r'ally  blame  ye.  But  ye  kin  hoi'  up  yer  hid 
about  'im,  now  !  He've  done  gran'  by  ye  at 
last,  Mikey  !  He've  lift  ye  a  name  ye  kin  be 
proud  of !" 

It  was  days  before  the  flames  in  that  vast 
pit  of  death  were  subdued ;  days  before  word 
came  to  Mary  Casey  that  bodies  were  being 
brought  up,  and  that  she  would  best  hasten 
to  Monovia  to  see  if  she  could  identify  her 
husband. 

Tim  Kavanagh  thought  he  should  go  —  "bein' 
the  man  o'  the  fam'ly."  But  he  shrank  from 
before  the  furious  refusal  in  Mary's  eyes  and 
in  her  scant  figure  with  its  new  erectness  and 
command.  uFm  the  man  o'  this  fam'ly,  now," 
she  said.     And  Tim  withdrew. 

In  one  of  his  pockets,  Pa  Casey  always  carried 
a  bit  of  Colorado  goldstone,  picked  up  on  some 
of  his  vagrant  wanderings.  It  was  a  topic  for 
frequent  conversation,  because  when  things 
"wint  bad,"  Pa  would  descant  on  what  things 
might  be  if  he  could  only  get  back  to  the 
country  "  wheer  a  man  can  pick  up  the  like  o' 
this  off  the  ground."  Sometimes  he  encountered 
a  scoffer,  who  tried  to  explain  that  the  shining 
particles  were  not  gold ;  but  Pa  never  believed 
him  —  his  faith  in  his  El  Dorado  remained 
unshaken  to  the  end.  It  was  by  the  bit  of 
goldstone  that  Mary  identified  him ;    not  even 


2SO  JUST  FOLKS 

the    fires    of    that    Inferno    had    destroyed    its 
shining. 

When  they  gave  Mary  the  letter  he  had  left 
for  her  —  the  hastily-scrawled  note  of  farewell 
written  at  the  mouth  of  the  burning  mine  —  she 
admitted  to  no  one  that  she  could  not  read  it, 
but  carried  it  in  her  bosom  until  she  got  home. 

There,  standing  beside  his  father's  coffin  as 
she  directed  him,  Mikey,  who  had  been  allowed 
to  go  to  his  father's  funeral,  broke  the  seal  of  the 
dirty  envelope  and  read.  The  start  for  the 
church  would  be  made  presently;  this  was 
their  last  time  together  as  a  family.  All  the 
mourning  for  Patsy  which  had  grown  rusty,  was 
re-dipped ;  and  in  the  pitiful  little  parlie  there 
seemed  only  black  and  white ;  black  shadows 
(for  it  was  a  drear,  rainy  day),  and  black  clothes, 
and  black  casket ;  and  white  faces,  and  white 
candles,  and  white  flowers. 

With  choking  voice,  Mikey  began  to  read  :  — 

"  'Dear  Mamie'  "  —  it  was  the  name  he  had 
called  her  by  in  their  courting  days,  before  she 
became  just  "yer  ma"  —  "'Dear  Mamie  an' 
the  Kids.  If  this  ever  gits  to  you  I  guess  you'll 
know  why  I  rote  it.  The  wives  an  kids  of  them 
fellows  down  there  is  standin  at  the  mouth  If  it 
was  youse  I  hope  some  one  would  go  down  fer 
me.  Goodby.  If  I  come  up  alive  I'm  goin  to  do 
better  by  you.     Love  to  all. 

"'Patsy.'" 


JUST  FOLKS  251 

When  he  finished,  they  were  all  sobbing. 
Mary  reached  for  the  letter  and  returned  it  to 
her  bosom. 

"Thank  God  fer  yer  chance,  Patsy  bye!" 
she  said,  her  face  uplifted  and  her  eyes   shining. 


XIII 

While  the  Caseys  were  burying  Pa,  the  Slin- 
skys  were  made  distraught  by  the  serious  illness 
of  Jacob.  "Pneumonia,"  the  doctor  said,  and 
advised  the  hospital. 

Mrs.  Slinsky,  when  the  hospital  was  men- 
tioned, fell  heavily  into  a  kitchen  chair,  lifted 
her  apron  to  her  face,  and  began  to  weep  violently. 
Her  mother,  acute  terror  writ  in  every  feature, 
tugged  at  the  weeping  woman's  sleeve,  begging, 
in  Yiddish,  to  be  told  what  was  going  to  happen ; 
when  Dinah  explained  to  her,  the  grandmother 
beat  her  withered  breasts,  then  covered  with  her 
shawl  her  be-wigged  head  and  gave  way  to  woe 
unspeakable. 

Dinah  motioned  the  doctor  out  into  the  hall. 
"They  do  not  understand,"  she  explained,  "they 
fear  the  hospital  as  the  place  where  people  go 
only  to  die.     I  will  try  to  explain." 

"You  must  do  it  quickly,  then.  Every  hour 
counts,  in  pneumonia.  And  your  father  is  a 
delicate  man  —  if  the  pneumonia  does  not  carry 
him  off  now,  it  may  easily  turn  to  consumption 
and  put  him  to  a  lingering  death.  He  must  have 
nursing ;  he  must  have  many  things  that  he  can- 

252 


JUST  FOLKS  253 

not  have  here.  You  understand ;  you  explain  it 
to  them." 

When  he  was  gone,  Dinah  knocked  at  Liza 
Allen's  door  and  asked  to  speak  to  Beth  who, 
fortunately,  was  in.  Dinah  told  their  trouble 
and  asked  if  Beth  thought  it  would  be  im- 
posing on  Mrs.  Brent's  goodness  to  telephone 
her  and  ask  her  to  come  over. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Beth,  "I'm  sure  she  would 
want  to  know.  I'll  go  up  to  the  drug  store  and 
'phone  her." 

In  an  hour  Eleanor  Brent  was  there,  pleading 
with  Mrs.  Slinsky  about  the  hospital,  trying  to 
describe  its  advantages,  its  beneficence,  to  tell 
her  how  persons  of  the  very  greatest  wealth 
gladly  went  from  their  splendid  homes  to  the 
hospitals  and  paid  big  sums  to  get  nursing  no 
better  than  Jacob  Slinsky  might  have  for  no 
charge  at  all. 

"I  think  I  can  get  him  into  the  Presbyterian 
Hospital,"  Eleanor  said.  "They  are  very 
crowded,  but  I'll  try  —  if  you'll  let  me.  He'll 
almost  certainly  die,  here.  In  pneumonia  it  is 
so  hard  to  breathe  —  as  you  hear !  He  must 
have  lots  of  pure  air,  and  your  bedroom  is  so 
small  and  close  —  not  much  air  comes  in.  If 
you  keep  him  here,  and  he  dies,  think  how  you 
will  always  reproach  yourself  !  But  if  you  give 
him  his  chance  to  live  — " 

Thus  entreated,  Mrs.  Slinsky  at  length  con- 


254  JUST  FOLKS 

sented,  and  Eleanor  went  away  to  make  arrange- 
ments. 

The  arrival  of  the  ambulance  created  intense 
excitement  in  Maxwell  Street,  and  before  the 
attendants  had  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs  with 
the  stretcher  on  which  Jacob  was  to  be  taken 
away,  the  doorway  and  the  sidewalk  were 
thronged,  and  curious  heads  hung  out  of  every 
window  that  permitted  a  view. 

Patient,  gentle,  resigned,  Jacob  was  an  entirely 
passive  factor  in  the  scene.  Sarah  wept  hysteri- 
cally. Abe  strove  manfully  to  be  brave  and  to 
comfort  his  mother.  Dinah  showed  a  beautiful 
heroism.  But  the  little  grandmother,  at  sight 
of  her  beloved  son-in-law  being  carried  away 
by  strange,  uniformed  men,  uttered  one  scream 
of  heart-broken  protest  and  fell  to  the  floor. 

Picking  her  up  and  carrying  her  into  the  room 
where  she  slept  with  the  two  girls,  created  a 
distraction  which  eased  the  terrible  tension  of 
those  moments  when  the  stretcher-bearers  were 
slowly  making  their  way  with  their  burden 
down  the  steep,  dark  stairs  and  out  through  the 
close-pressing  crowds  about  the  door.  But  long 
after  the  ambulance  had  driven  away,  the 
distressing  moans,  the  guttural,  unintelligible 
sounds,  issued  from  that  little  room  where 
Mrs.  Slinsky  and  her  mother  were. 

"Can't  you  comfort  your  grandmother?" 
Eleanor  entreated  of  Dinah. 


JUST  FOLKS  255 

"I  will  try  again,"  said  Dinah,  bravely,  "but 
it  is  hard.  In  Poland  she  suffered  so  much,  she 
cannot  understand  how  it  is  different  here,  nor 
why  men  come  to  take  my  dear  father  away." 

When  Jacob  had  been  gone  for  time  long 
enough  to  see  him  settled  at  the  hospital, 
Eleanor  ventured  on  something  which  might, 
she  hoped,  lessen  the  reign  of  terror  in  the 
Slinsky  home :  she  took  Mrs.  Slinsky  over  to 
the  hospital,  made  a  specially  strong  plea  to  the 
Superintendent,  and  got  permission  for  Jacob's 
wife  to  see  him  for  a  moment  and  so  feel  assured 
that  he  was  being  well  cared  for. 

Up  in  the  elevator,  and  along  the  wide  corridors 
with  the  shining  oaken  floors,  they  went.  It 
was  a  bright,  warm,  gloriously  sunny  day  — 
one  of  those  wherewith  March  often  tricks 
Chicago  into  believing  spring  has  come,  only 
to  undeceive  her  later  with  long  weeks  of  belated 
blustering.  Eleanor  had  pointed  out  to  Mrs. 
Slinsky  as  they  came,  how  fortunate  they  were 
to  have  such  a  day  for  Jacob's  removal.  She 
felt  doubly  grateful  that  on  a  day  like  this  Mrs. 
Slinsky  was  come  to  get  her  first  impressions  of 
a  hospital.  Floods  of  sunshine  were  everywhere, 
and  accentuated  the  shining  cleanliness,  the 
large,  comfortable  rooms,  the  airiness  and  the 
quiet.  Mrs.  Slinsky  was  impressed  by  the  evi- 
dent willingness  of  such  patients  as  she  saw  — 


256  JUST  FOLKS 

convalescents,  mostly  —  to  be  there;  by  the 
competent  look  of  the  nurses ;  and  by  the 
unmistakably  happy  relations  between  the  sick 
and  those  who  cared  for  them.  Eleanor's  in- 
fluence with  the  hospital  authorities  was  suffi- 
ciently strong  to  get  her  permission  to  take  Mrs. 
Slinsky  to  the  children's  ward,  where  she  saw 
the  little  things  for  whom  so  much  had  been 
done.  This  ward  always  abounds  in  stories  of 
child  patients  who  were  loath  to  go  home; 
and  Mrs.  Slinsky  could  almost  understand  why, 
when  she  saw  how  happy  they  were  there. 

Then  they  went  to  see  Jacob.  Fortified  by  all 
these  comforting  impressions,  his  wife  was  able 
to  speak  a  reassuring  word  to  him  and  to  come 
away  herself  reassured. 

When  they  got  back  to  Maxwell  Street  and  had 
climbed  the  dark  stairs  to  the  Slinskys'  rooms, 
Eleanor  hoped  Mrs.  Slinsky  was  struck,  as 
she  was,  by  the  tremendous  contrast  between 
them  and  those  big,  airy,  sun-flooded  rooms  to 
which  Jacob  had  been  removed  for  his  life's 
saving.  Not  a  window  in  this  place  had  been 
opened  for  months,  probably ;  and  if  any  of  the 
rays  of  March  sunshine  had  struggled  down  over 
the  roof  of  the  next  building  on  the  west,  and 
into  the  tiny  court,  and  come  a-seeking,  merci- 
fully, at  the  one  window  in  the  Slinskys'  kitchen, 
they  could  not  —  it  seemed  —  have  forced  their 
beneficent  way  through  the    grime  with  which 


JUST  FOLKS  257 

that  window  was  "opaqued."  Eleanor  longed 
to  speak  of  air,  but  dared  not.  She  wondered 
how  Dinah  stood  the  daily  change  from  the  big, 
gray  building  on  the  Lake  Front,  with  its  galleries 
of  lovely  things  and  its  air  of  order  and  rest- 
fulness,  to  this  clutter  and  dirt  and  unloveli- 
ness.  For  the  grandmother  and  for  the  mother, 
it  was  all  right,  perhaps ;  they  knew  no  better, 
nor  cared  to  know.  But  Dinah,  with  her  love 
of  beauty  !  Eleanor  shuddered  to  think  of  the 
girl's  daily  home-comings,  and  of  her  long  even- 
ings spent  here,  trying  to  sketch  the  old,  be- 
wigged  grandmother,  and  the  mother,  moving 
heavily  about  and  "spilling  tears." 

Dinah  had  done  what  she  could,  while  her 
mother  and  Eleanor  were  gone,  to  put  the  place 
to  rights.  It  had  been  a  relief  to  gather  up  the 
unwashed  dishes,  to  pick  up  the  aprons  and 
other  clothing  dropped  in  the  abandonment 
of  woe  and  left  to  lie  where  they  fell. 

She  had  even  succeeded  in  quieting  the  old 
grandmother;  but  on  Mrs.  Slinsky's  return, 
her  mother's  lamentations  broke  out  afresh  and 
were  silenced  only  by  a  long  account,  in  Yiddish, 
of  the  pleasant  place  their  dear  Jacob  was  in ; 
even  after  all  was  told,  though,  the  old  woman 
shook  ominously  her  black-wigged  head. 

"  She  can't  believe,"  said  Mrs.  Slinsky ;  "  always 
she  is  remembering  Poland  and  our  sufferings." 

"You  suffered  much,  there  ?"   Eleanor  asked. 


258  JUST  FOLKS 

"Oh,  yes  —  much  !  To  learn  to  read,  it  was 
forbidden.  To  go  out  of  our  village  was  not 
allowed.  Should  a  girl  come  out  of  her  village 
for  any  reason,  and  go  back,  she's  branded 
as  —  as  one  that  has  no  shame.  In  nothing 
is  freedom  —  in  everything  is  oppression.  And 
'the   Little   Father'    some   do   call   the  Tsar!" 

"Perhaps  he  doesn't  know  —  he  sits  so  high 
up  in  his  great  palaces  he  cannot  realize,"  sug- 
gested Eleanor. 

She  was  startled  by  the  vehemence  of  the 
flaccid  woman  before  her.  "But  he  should 
know  !"  Mrs.  Slinsky  cried.  "That  is  what  his 
business  is  —  he  should  know  !  In  my  country  is 
legend  of  a  king.  He  was  very  great,  rich  king 
and  his  people  was  very  poor  and  suffered  much, 
so  that  after  while  his  heart  was  touched,  and 
he  had  wish  to  help.  But  what  to  do  he  could 
not  tell  —  he  knows  so  little  what  poor  peoples 
need.  So  he  thinks  very  hard.  Most  of  his 
men  what  he  has  to  help  him,  think  poor  people 
should  be  poor  —  that  is  all  they  are  worthy 
of ;  and  nobody  knows  how  to  tell  that  king 
what  he  shall  do.  But  he  has  one  chief  man 
he  loves ;  that  man  is  good  man  at  heart.  So 
the  king  send  rough  soldiers,  one  night,  and  take 
that  good  man  and  drag  him  from  his  family 
and  send  him  into  exile.  And  the  soldiers  tell 
that  man  the  king  has  take  all  his  possessions 
away  —  everything ;    and  that  he  will  not  see 


JUST  FOLKS  259 

his  wife  or  children  or  his  old  father  and  mother, 
any  more.  And  they  take  that  good  man  and 
cast  him  on  little  island  where  is  nobody,  and 
where  he  cannot  come  away,  and  where  he 
must  get  with  his  own  hands  fire  to  keep  from 
freezing  and  food  to  keep  from  starving.  And 
the  king  leaves  him  so,  for  three  years,  to 
wonder  why  he  is  treated  this  way.  Then  the 
king  sends  for  him  and  gives  him  back  all  that 
he  had,  and  says  :  'Now  you  shall  help  me  to  do 
good.  You  know  how  it  is  to  suffer  like  poor 
peoples  suffer.'  And  that  good  man  could 
help  the  king,  and  it  was  wonderful  time  in 
Poland  for  poor  peoples.  If  the  Tsar  wanted, 
he  could  help.  Maybe  he  couldn't  go  himself  to 
learn  ;  but  he  could  send." 

"And  that  king,  too,  sent  his  best,"  Eleanor 
murmured,  deeply  moved. 

Dinah  followed  her  into  the  dark  hall,  when 
she  came  away,  and  closing  the  kitchen  door 
behind  them,  said:  "Perhaps  you  have  not 
thought,  my  dear,  dear  friend,  but  with  my 
father's  illness,  our  —  our  living  stops.  There 
is  only  one  thing  to  do ;  I  must  get  work. 
Abe  finishes  High  School  this  year  —  he  must 
not  stop  now.  I  cannot  earn  much,  perhaps, 
but  I  can  do  something  so  we  can  live;  and 
my  .mother  will  sew  a  little.  If  you  should 
hear  of  anything  that  I  can  do  —  or  if  Miss 
Tully  should—  " 


26o  JUST  FOLKS 

"I'll  try  —  I'll  ask  her,  too,  Dinah,  dear," 
Eleanor  assured  her;  and  bent,  in  the  black 
hall,  to  kiss  Dinah's  sweet,  patient  face  —  glad 
of  the  darkness  in  which  Dinah  could  not  see  her 
tears. 

"I'll  see  now  if  Miss  Tully's  home,"  she 
said ;  and  knocked  on  Liza's  door  as  Dinah 
re-opened  hers. 

Beth  was  not  there  just  then,  but  Liza  expected 
her  at  any  minute  and  she  urged  Mrs.  Brent  to 
wait.  Sunshine  was  pouring  in  the  two  south 
windows  of  Liza's  front  room,  and  the  atmos- 
phere —  if  not  quite  like  that  of  Eleanor's 
home  —  was  very  bearable  and  a  most  grateful 
change  from  that  of  the  Slinskys'  kitchen. 

Adam  was  at  home  —  he  was  usually  at  home 
—  snugly  ensconced  beside  the  kitchen  stove; 
and  he  and  Liza  abundantly  entertained  Eleanor 
while  Beth  tarried. 

Finally,  when  she  could  wait  no  longer,  Elea- 
nor left  with  Liza  her  message  for  Beth  about 
Dinah,  and  went  on  her  way  to  see  what  she 
herself  could  do. 

The  mystery  of  Eleanor's  "man"  and  why 
he  had  been  such  a  tragic  disappointment,  gave 
Liza  and  Adam  great  concern. 

"Don't  seem  like  she  could  have  give  him 
much  of  a  trial,"  said  Liza,  that  evening  after 
Beth  had  returned  and  been  given  an  account 


JUST  FOLKS  261 

of  Eleanor's  visit,  "fer,  land  sakes  !  she  ain't 
nothin'  but  a  child,  yet ! " 

"It  doesn't  take  a  lifetime  to  find  out  some 
mistakes,"  suggested  Beth.  "I  guess  when  a 
girl  like  Eleanor  builds  a  lovely  dream  about 
some  one,  and  it  is  shattered  — " 

"Oh,  shucks!"  declared  Liza,  "life  ain't 
no  dream.  What's  all  her  eddication  fer,  an' 
her  furrin  travel,  an'  all  that,  if  it  don't  teach 
her  what  I  learned  'thout  ever  comin'  out  o' 
Steuben ville :  that  gittin'  married's  a  serious 
business.  Men  wa'n't  made  t'  dream  about; 
they  was  made  t'  develop  woman's  Christian 
characters." 

Adam  received  this  thrust,  which  he  knew  was 
intended  for  him,  with  beautiful  complacency; 
there  was  no  role  he  liked  so  well  as  that  of  the 
"gay  Ontario." 

"Then  I  s'pose,"  he  ventured,  after  due  time 
to  think  out  his  retort,  "that  them  women 
that  marries  awful  late  in  life,  has  got  dreadful 
backward  Christian  characters." 

Liza  bristled,  even  beyond  his  hopes.  "Don't 
you  ever  believe  it!"  she  cried.  "There's 
more  ways,  an'  better  ones,  of  findin'  out  what 
men  is,  than  bein'  tied  to  one  poor  specimen  — 
on'y  some  women  never  finds  'em." 

"Not  if  they  kin  find  the  specimen,"  Adam 
chuckled. 

At  this  point,  Beth  thought  it  wise  to  inter- 


262  JUST  FOLKS 

vene.  "I  can't  see,"  she  said  musingly,  "how 
there  could  be  any  kind  of  man  who  could  live 
with  a  girl  like  Eleanor  Brent  and  not  be  up- 
lifted by  her." 

"That's  just  it,  I  bet  ye!"  Adam  opined. 
"She's  prob'ly  too  durned  upliftin'  fer  any 
mortal  use.     I  know  them  women  !" 

"You  !"    Liza  snorted  unbelievingly. 

"Yes,  me!  There's  more  ways,  an'  better 
ones,  of  findin'  out  what  women  is,  than  bein' 
tied  to  one  poor  specimen." 

Thus  the  speculations  raged,  beginning  with 
Eleanor,  but  always  intensely  personal  in  their 
final  results  —  just  as  least  and  greatest  of  us 
philosophizes  upon  the  world  at  large  with  spe- 
cial reference  to  the  world  within  ourselves. 

Beth  was  only  amused  at  the  conjectures  of 
Adam,  and  even  of  Liza.  But  she  was  a  little 
nettled  to  find  that  Hart  Ferris  inclined  to  take  a 
somewhat  similar  view  of  Eleanor's  probable  case. 

"I  don't  know  where  'the  shine'  of  her  life, 
as  you  call  it,  went  to,"  he  ventured  to  say, 
"but  I'd  like  to  bet  that  it's  lurking  somewhere 
where  she  could  whistle  it  back  if  she  would  — 
and  she  wonH." 

"Why,  Hart  Ferris!" 

"Well,  I  don't  mean  to  be  ungallant,  Beth 
dear,  but  them's  my  honest  sentiments.  I 
haven't  seen  much  of  the  kind  of  lovely  lady  that's 
too   good   for   this    naughty   world  —  my  lines 


JUST  FOLKS  263 

haven't  fallen  in  the  places  she  frequents  —  but 
I've  heard  about  her,  and  read  about  her.  And 
I  know  she  collects  a  lot  of  sympathy  in  excess 
of  what  she  deserves.  Mary  Casey  stacks  up 
much,  much  bigger  with  me.  Do  you  remember 
what  she  said  when  you  told  her  about  Adam  and 
Liza  ?  '  I  belave  'tis  in  the  nature  of  ivry  woman 
t'  want  a  man  t'  try  her  hand  on.  All  of  us  be- 
laves  oursilves  born  min-tamers,  an'  none  of  us 
iver  loses  the  notion  —  though  some  kapes  tryin' 
diffrunt  min,  lookin'  fer  success  wid  wan  out 
o'  the  lot,  an'  some  kapes  tryin'  the  same  man 
over  an  over,  same  as  me.'  I'm  old-fashioned, 
maybe,  but  the  longer  I  live  and  the  more  I 
see  of  the  world,  the  bigger  she  looks  to  me  — 
that  woman  who  'kapes  tryin' 3  her  one  man, 
over  and  over,  same  as  Mary  Casey." 

Beth  made  no  reply.  She  pretended  to  her- 
self that  it  was  because  of  the  uselessness  of 
argument.  But  really  it  was  because  she  had 
nothing  to  say. 

It  was  not  easy,  finding  work  for  Dinah ;  but 
Eleanor  had  not  expected  that  it  would  be,  and 
she  was  not  daunted  by  the  difficulty.  By  dint 
of  great  diplomacy,  she  managed  to  get  Dinah 
to  accept  from  her  a  small  loan  which  she  was 
to  pay  back  in  small  weekly  instalments  out  of 
her  wages  when  she  got  work;  and  this  pro- 
vided for  the  family's  immediate  necessities. 


264  JUST  FOLKS 

It  might  have  been  a  little  easier  to  get  some 
simple  manual  thing  for  Dinah  to  do  at  home 

—  she  did,  indeed,  help  her  mother  with  the 
"finishing"  Mrs.  Slinsky  did  for  sweatshops  — 
but  Eleanor  was  intensely  anxious  to  see  if 
something  could  not  be  found  for  Dinah  that 
would  enable  her  to  earn,  and  still  not  slam  too 
rudely  in  her  face  all  those  doors  to  long  vistas 
of  beauty,  through  which  she  had  peered  so 
wistfully  these  last  months. 

At  length  the  way  opened,  quite  wonderfully, 
it  seemed.  A  friend  of  Eleanor's  who  did  most 
exquisite  bookbinding  and  other  art  work  in 
leathers,  offered  to  take  Dinah  as  an  apprentice ; 
to  teach  her  design,  the  use  of  color,  and  other 
excellent  things  which,  mastered,  command  a 
good  recompense  and  give  an  artist-craftsman's 
joy.  Dinah  was  to  stay  in  the  studio  and,  in 
the  absence  of  the  artist,  to  answer  the  tele- 
phone, receive  parcels,  and  otherwise  provide 
against  the  possible  loss  of  being  called  upon 
and  found  not  at  home.  Also,  she  was  to  do 
anything  helpful  that  she  could  do  about  the 
studio  at  any  time.  And  the  artist,  who  could 
easily  have  got  without  pay  an  apprentice  from 
among  the  hundreds  of  well-to-do  girls  who  as- 
pired to  learn  her  art,  was  willing  to  disregard 
that  fact  and  pay  Dinah  a  small  weekly  wage 

—  more  than  she  could  possibly  have  earned  at 
any  of  the  employments  for  which  she  was  now 


JUST  FOLKS  265 

fitted.  This  was  a  principle,  with  Dinah's  new 
friend.  She  believed  in  gleanings,  not  in  dole; 
in  leaving  some  of  her  harvest  to  be  gathered, 
self-respectingly,  by  the  needy,  rather  than  in 
reaping  it  all  herself  and  handing  back  a  tithe 
of  it  in  demeaning  charity.  Dinah  was  exceed- 
ingly fortunate  to  enlist  the  interest  of  this 
splendid  woman.  She  did  not  know,  of  course, 
about  the  "gleanings"  —  was  not  aware  that 
the  offer  of  wages  was  unusual  —  but  she  did 
know  that  the  opportunity  was  a  fine  one,  and 
she  was  intensely  grateful.  In  the  studio  she 
would  encounter  many  charming  and  clever 
people,  would  hear  such  talk  as  delighted  her, 
and  be  in  a  way,  almost  as  much  as  in  the 
Art  Institute,  to  realize  many  of  her  fondest 
dreams. 

"You  have  no  idea,"  she  said  lovingly  to 
Eleanor,  "how  you  have  transformed  my  life, 
and  life  for  us  all.  There  used  to  be  nothing  to 
expect  —  almost  nothing  to  hope.  I  was  afraid 
to  look  ahead,  to  think  of  the  future.  Now,  it 
is  all  so  different.  Every  day  I  wake  with  a 
glad  feeling,  for  I  cannot  tell  what  sweet  surprise 
the  day  will  bring." 

But  alas  for  the  best-laid  plans  !  Dinah  had 
been  in  the  studio  less  than  a  week  when  the 
sword  fell.  On  Friday  afternoons,  after  dark, 
her  employer  laid  work  aside  and  served  tea  to 
her  friends.     She  asked  some  help  of  Dinah  — 


266  JUST  FOLKS 

something  about  lighting  the  charcoal  fire  in  the 
samovar. 

Dinah's  face  flushed,  and  her  eyes  spoke  keen 
distress.  "I  —  I  —  it  is  the  Shabbas,"  she  fal- 
tered; "we  are  forbidden — " 

"  The  what?" 

Dinah  explained. 

"And  to-morrow  ?" 

"To-morrow  I  must  not  do  any  work.  I  am 
so  sorry  —  I  ought  to  have  thought  about  it 
before  —  but  I  forgot  —  I  was  so  happy  —  and 
I  am  used  only  to  those  who  understand  our 
religion." 

"I,  too,  am  sorry,  Dinah;  but  I  think  you'll 
find  that  you  can't  get  on  this  way.  If  you  are 
content  to  stay  in  the  Ghetto,  you  may  keep 
your  orthodoxy.  But  if  you  want  to  come  out, 
to  enter  the  big  other  world,  you  must  meet 
it  on  its  own  terms.  You  —  you  —  pardon  me, 
but  you  have  much  against  you,  at  best.  And 
you  make  your  way  so  much,  much  harder  by 
insisting  on  practices  that  are  not  sacred  in  the 
world  you  want  to  enter.  Now,  if  you  feel  that 
you  cannot  change — " 

"Oh,  I  couldn't,"  pleaded  Dinah,  in  an  awed 
tone  but  with  vehement  conviction,  "it  would 
break  my  parents'  hearts.  And  we  —  you  see 
they  try  to  be  very,  very  strict  about  the  laws, 
because  they  feel  that  at  some  time  they  must 
have  given  offence,  and  I — am  their  Judgment." 


JUST  FOLKS  267 

"I  feel  ashamed  that  I  let  her  go,"  the  artist 
said  afterwards  to  Eleanor,  "but  that  awful  in- 
flexibility just  'got  my  dander  up.'  There's 
no  use  trying  !  With  all  the  obstacles  she  has 
that  cannot  be  overcome,  she  will  go  on  creating 
others  for  herself  with  her  beliefs.  The  kindest 
thing  I  can  do,  I  daresay,  is  to  let  her  forget  her 
art  dreams  and  work  out  her  own  salvation 
according  to  her  law." 

Eleanor  was  inclined  to  tenderness  for  Dinah 
until  she  encountered  the  rigidity  of  opinion  in 
the  Slinsky  household.  "They  will  let  her 
sacrifice  everything  to  their  Shabbas,"  she  com- 
plained bitterly  to  Beth,  "and  I  don't  see  how 
any  of  us  can  hope  to  help  her  against  such 
fanatical  unyieldingness." 

Beth  also  tried  to  talk  to  Dinah  and  to  the 
Slinskys,  but  with  only  the  same  results. 

In  deep  distress,  Dinah  went  to  Eleanor  to 
make  plain  to  that  dear  friend  how  appreciative 
she  was  of  the  happiness  offered  her  and  which 
she  felt  she  could  not  accept.  And  Eleanor  was 
melted  by  the  girl's  evident  heroism. 

"Dinah  dear,"  she  said,  "I  am  afraid  life  is 
going  to  be  terribly  hard  for  you.  Happiness 
does  not  come  to  us  on  our  own  terms.  We  have 
to  reach  out  after  it  and  grasp  it  where  it  lies." 

"Perhaps,"  Dinah  ventured,  "it  is  not  in- 
tended that  we  should  be  happy  —  only  that  we 
should  be  good." 


268  JUST  FOLKS 

"That,"  said  Eleanor,  proudly,  "is  the  differ- 
ence between  your  faith  and  mine.  I  be- 
lieve — "  this  was,  though  Eleanor  was  not  con- 
scious of  it  at  the  moment,  the  first  time  in  her 
life  she  had  formulated  her  credo  —  "that  Love 
came  to  transform  the  old,  hard  law,  and  make 
happiness  not  only  possible,  but  an  obligation." 

When  Dinah  got  up  to  go,  her  problem  was 
not  solved,  but  she  felt,  somehow,  stronger  and 
better  able  to  meet  it.  "You  help  me  so  much," 
she  told  Eleanor,  at  parting,  "I  wish  I  could 
help  you  a  little." 

"It  helps  me  to  be  able  to  help  you,"  Eleanor 
assured  her. 

"But  that  is  not  finding  your  happiness  — 
that  is  only  learning  to  get  along  without  it." 

Eleanor  looked  pensive.  "Perhaps  that  was 
all  that  was  meant  for  me,"  she  said  softly. 

Dinah  looked  up  into  her  face  and  smiled  — 
a  respectful  but  rather  inscrutable  little  smile. 
"Perhaps  you,  too,"  she  said,  "even  in  your 
religion,  say  that  too  easily." 

Eleanor  did  not  answer,  then.  But  after 
Dinah  was  gone,  she  sat  for  a  long  while,  look- 
ing into  the  red  heart  of  her  log  fire.  And  it 
might  have  been  an  hour  later  when  she  said 
aloud,  "Perhaps  I  do"  —  and  sat  down  to  her 
desk  to  write  a  letter. 

It  was  the  next  day  that  Dinah's  erstwhile 
employer    came    to    see    Eleanor.     "I've    been 


JUST  FOLKS  269 

thinking,"  she  said,  and  smiled  whimsically  at 
her  own  slowness  in  thinking  it,  "that  I  was 
quite  as  inflexible  as  Dinah,  with  far  less  reason. 
It  wouldn't  have  hurt  me,  or  even  have  incon- 
venienced me,  much,  to  respect  her  faith;  and 
it  would  have  hurt  her  terribly  to  disregard  it. 
I  —  I  wonder  if  she  would  forgive  me  and  con- 
sider coming  back  to  me." 

"I  think  she  would,"  replied  Eleanor,  "and 
if,  as  time  goes  on,  she  comes  to  feel  that  any  of 
the  tenets  of  her  faith  are  non-essential,  I  be- 
lieve she  will  be  quick  to  compromise.  But  she 
could  never  be  a  real  artist  of  any  sort  if  she  were 
not  true  to  her  faith.  What  a  problem  life  is, 
isn't  it  ?  And  how  we  have  to  learn,  each  of  us, 
to  grow  more  and  more  exacting  only  about 
ourselves,  and  more  and  more  tenderly  unexact- 
ing  of  other  people.  Dinah  has  taught  me  a 
great  deal." 

To  Dinah,  a  week  later  —  to  Dinah,  back  in 
the  loved  studio  —  Eleanor  wrote  :  — 

"You  don't  know  how  I  needed  you,  Dinah 
dear.  You  have  opened  my  eyes  to  many 
things  and,  among  them,  to  my  own  happiness. 
'The  shine'  has  come  back  into  my  life  —  only 
tenfold  more  glorious  —  and  I  think  it  has  come 
to  stay.     If  it  does,  I  have  you  to  thank." 

"Isn't  it  wonderful,"  said  Dinah  when  she 
had  read  this  letter  to  Jacob,  convalescing  in 


270  JUST  FOLKS 

the  hospital,  "how  God  has  made  the  world  so 
that  we  are  necessary  to  one  another,  and  even 
the  —  the  littlest  can  help  the  strong  and 
lovely!" 

Jacob  Slinsky's  fine  face  lighted  with  a  look 
of  tenderness,  and  he  reached  out  and  patted 
Dinah's  stubby  little  hands. 

"Father,"  whispered  Dinah,  "do  you  believe 
that  I  am  —  short,  because  God  was  angry  ? 
Or  do  you  think  that  maybe  sometimes  he  makes 
us  so  in  —  in  Love  ?" 

"I  think,  my  Dinah,"  Jacob  Slinsky  answered, 
"that  —  that  only  for  Love  God  gave  you  to 
us." 

And  the  sunshine,  pouring  in  life-giving  floods 
about  Jacob  as  he  sat  in  his  wheel-chair,  seemed 
to  his  sensitive  soul  to  have  a  fainter  radiance 
than  Dinah's  face  as  she  raised  it  to  kiss  him 
good-by. 


XIV 

Mikey  returned  to  the  John  Worthy  School 
immediately  after  his  father's  funeral ;  but 
Beth,  when  she  went  back  with  him,  told  the 
Superintendent  all  the  details  of  the  case. 

Hitherto,  even  in  the  family's  direst  need, 
she  had  hesitated  to  ask  Mikey's  release;  be- 
cause she  knew  how  hard  for  him  conditions  at 
home  would  be,  and  doubted  his  ability  to  en- 
dure them  and  withstand  the  temptations  of 
"de  gang." 

But  now,  if  his  indeterminate  sentence  could 
be  terminated  (on  her  petition,  through  the 
Juvenile  Court,  and  the  sanction  of  the  reform 
school  superintendent)  Mikey  could  go  home 
and  not  be  fretted  by  having  his  pa  to  support. 
There  would  be  hard  conditions  for  him  to  face, 
but  he  would  not  be  embittered  by  having  to 
give  his  earnings  to  provide  his  pa  with  money 
for  drinks  and  with  leisure  to  keep  his  feet  in  the 
oven. 

There  had  been  a  desperate  antagonism  be- 
tween Mikey  and  his  pa  —  an  antagonism  that 
was  not  greatly  softened  by  Pa's  tragic  end. 
But  now  that  Pa  was  gone,  it  might  be  that 

271 


272  JUST  FOLKS 

the  responsibility  awaiting  Mikey  in  Henry 
Street  would  be  "the  making  of  him." 

The  Superintendent  thought  it  might.  He 
was  a  man  of  transcendent  kindliness  —  to 
many  of  his  prisoners  the  best  friend  that  they 
had  ever  known.  He  made  it  truly  a  "house  of 
correction"  —  that  great  institution  over  which 
he  ruled,  and  which  he  preferred  to  have  thus 
designated  rather  than  by  the  term  Bridewell 
which  has  become  approbrious  since  the  gentle 
boy-king,  Edward  VI,  set  apart  the  stately 
palace  by  St.  Bride's  Well  for  the  correctional 
care  of  the  sin-sick  —  and  he  held  his  responsible 
office  in  a  way  that  was  a  credit  to  Christian 
civilization. 

Accordingly,  Beth  made  her  plea  for  Mikey's 
release,  and  he  was  taken  into  the  Juvenile 
Court  to  receive  the  termination  of  his  sentence. 

When  told  that  he  was  free,  Mikey  seemed 
reluctant  to  go.  Beth  thought  she  understood. 
Mikey  was  afraid  of  a  demonstrative  welcome 
from  his  mother  —  afraid  he  might  break  down 
under  it;  and  he  was  afraid  to  face  Henry 
Street. 

He  hung  around  Beth  until  her  court  duties 
were  over,  then  walked  with  her  south  on  Hal- 
sted  Street  and  west  to  Waller.  At  her  corner 
she  hesitated. 

"Shall  I  go  with  you,  Mikey  —  would  you 
rather  —  ?"    she  asked  appealingly. 


JUST  FOLKS  273 

"Naw,"  said  Mikey,  gruffly,  "I  mane,  no'm, 
I  t'ank  ye."     And  in  an  instant  he  was  gone. 

Beth  saw  him  pull  his  hat  low  over  his  eyes, 
and  turn  up  his  coat  collar,  after  he  left  her. 
Her  heart  ached  for  him,  but  she  knew  no  one 
could  help  him  through  this  trial.  That  was  the 
great  pity  of  it !  What  actually  happened  to 
Mikey  in  "  de  bean  house"  was  as  humane,  as 
beneficent,  as  gently  correctional  as  it  could 
well  be;  but  the  stigma  of  having  been  under 
restraint  remained.  Mikey  went  home  by  way 
of  the  alley.  Mrs.  Riordan  was  on  her  back 
porch,  and  saw  him. 

"That  Casey  bye  have  got  out  o'  jail,"  she 
announced  to  her  family  when  they  were 
assembled  at  supper,  "an'  I'll  lick  the  first 
wan  o'  youse  kids  that  have  annythin'  t9  do 
wid  him." 

In  the  Casey  kitchen,  Mary  Casey  was  bak- 
ing potato  cakes  on  the  stove-lids,  in  lieu  of  a 
griddle  —  Mikey  was  "awful  fond"  of  potato 
cakes  —  and  on  a  high  cake  dish  of  red  and 
white  glass  which  had  been  procured  with  many 
trading  stamps  and  was  the  glory  of  the  house- 
hold, was  a  heap  of  dainties  known  as  Bismarcks 
—  something  like  a  cruller  with  the  hole  left 
out  and  a  splash  of  red  jelly  inside  —  which 
Mikey  preferred  even  over  and  above  lemon 
cream  pie. 

When   the   kitchen   door   opened   and   Mary 


274  JUST  FOLKS 

saw  her  boy,  she  smothered  the  cry  of  joy  that 
rose  to  her  lips  and  spoke  with  a  fine  casualness 
to  the  returned  one,  whose  frame  of  mind  seemed 
to  convey  itself  at  once  to  her  quick  understand- 
ing. 

"An'  how  are  you  ?"  she  asked,  when  he  had 
hung  up  his  hat  and  set  himself  down  in  the 
old  rocker.  Her  tone  and  her  manner  were  such 
as  she  might  have  used  toward  a  traveller  fresh 
from  some  splendid  journey. 

"A'  right,"  said  Mikey,  briefly.  He  had 
noted  the  potato  cakes  and  the  Bismarcks  in 
the  red  glass  dish  —  and  he  understood. 

One  by  one  the  other  Caseys  came  in.  Evi- 
dently they  were  all  acting  under  instructions 
—  not  to  say  threats  —  from  their  ma  ;  for  not 
one  of  them  alluded  in  the  remotest  way  to 
"de  bean  house,"  although  no  command  could 
keep  out  of  their  round,  wondering  eyes  the  un- 
certainty as  to  how  their  Mikey  would  seem, 
after  this  strange  ordeal  he  had  been  through. 

Mikey  was  much  sobered  by  it.  But,  truth 
to  tell,  Mikey  had  not  needed  sobering  so  much 
as  he  had  needed  some  other  things ;  for  he  was 
always  a  dogged  rather  than  a  profligate  young 
person. 

Perhaps  only  a  mother-love  could  feel  what 
Mikey  needed.  Certainly  the  Law  had  not ;  or, 
if  it  had  felt  the  need,  it  had  done  nothing  ade- 
quate to  meet  it.     But  Mary  knew.     She  had 


JUST  FOLKS  275 

been  talking  to  Beth  about  her  hopes,  these 
weeks  past. 

Mikey  had  an  ambition.  No  one  but  his 
mother  knew  it,  and  she  never  could  tell  just 
how  she  found  it  out,  but  it  was  probably  by 
suspicion.  For  to  suspect  Mikey  of  something, 
and  then  to  watch  for  confirmation,  was  the 
only  way  to  find  out  anything  about  him ;  he 
never  confided  in  any  one  —  he  didn't  know 
how !  But  however  she  knew  it,  Mary  was 
aware  that  Mikey  had  an  ambition. 

"I  dunno,"  she  confessed  when  telling  Beth 
about  it,  "but  I  better  l'ave  off  tryin'  t'  git 
jobs  fer  anny  wan,  whin  I  t'ink  what  happened 
t'  Pat  Casey  in  the  job  I  got  'im  sint  to.  But 
times  ag'in  I  belave  'twas  Providince  done  that. 
Mebbe  it  wasn't  niver  intinded  fer  him  t'  take 
no  chance  t'  live  right  —  on'y  t'  die  splindid. 
But  I  want  t'  git  Mikey  a  chance  t'  live,  poor 
bye  !  In  all  his  life  he  ain't  got,  manny  times, 
t'  do  what  he  wanted  t'  do ;  an'  he  won't  git  it 
manny  times,  I'm  t'inkin'.  So  if  he  could  git 
this  wan  ambition,  just  now  whin  he  do  nade  it 
so,  'twould  be  an  awful  hilp  t'  him." 

The  ambition  of  Mikey  was  to  drive  a  horse. 
"Anny  kind  av  a  horse,"  Mary  opined,  "ixcipt 
a  saw-horse  er  a  clo'es-horse.  Iver  since  he 
was  a  bit  av  a  bye,  he've  been  that  crazy  'bout 
horses,  you  wouldn'  belave." 

Beth  told  the  factory  inspector  and  he  said 


276  JUST  FOLKS 

he  thought  something  could  be  done  to  help 
Mikey  realize  his  ambition;  but  he  could  tell 
better  when  he  had  seen  and  talked  with  Mikey. 

It  was  this  fine  hope  that  Mary  had,  treasured 
in  her  heart,  when  Mikey  came  home;  and 
while  they  sat  around  the  supper  table  —  she 
and  her  brood  of  six  —  she  tried  to  lead  up  to 
the  subject  on  her  mind. 

"Sure,  we  kin  have  Bismarcks  ivry  wake, 
whin  Mikey  git  t'  workin'  an'  bringin'  in  all 
that  money,"  she  began.  Mikey  said  nothing. 
"I'm  hearin'  of  a  gintleman,"  she  went  on, 
"that  was  askin'  Miss  Tully  did  she  t'ink  you'd 
be  willin'  t'  drive  a  horse  fer  some  wan  he  know." 
Mikey's  gaze  was  fixed  on  his  plate,  but  a  red 
spot  appeared  on  each  of  his  pale  cheeks,  and 
by  this  Mary  knew  he  was  excited.  "D'ye 
t'ink  ye'd  wish  t'  try  ?"  she  asked,  as  casually 
as  she  could. 

"I  dunno,"  said  Mikey,  "but  I  might  see." 

His  mother  noticed  that,  although  she  pressed 
another  Bismarck  on  him,  he  could  eat  no  more. 
Which  was  the  way  she  knew  what  emotions 
must  be  working  in  Mikey's  soul. 

The  factory  inspector  got  Mikey  the  coveted 
job.  It  was  a  job  with  a  horse  —  which  was 
very  satisfying;  and  if  Mikey  made  good  at 
that,  there  was  every  reason  to  hope  that  some 
day  he  would  get  a  team  to  drive  —  which  was 
a  splendid  incentive.     If  the  kingdoms  of  the 


JUST  FOLKS  277 

earth  had  been  offered  to  Mikey,  he  would  have 
chosen  this  particular  one  which  was  now  his. 

He  had  to  get  up  very  early  in  the  mornings 
—  before  six  —  and  he  was  hardly  ever  home  for 
supper  much  before  eight;  so  that  by  the  time 
he  had  eaten  the  hearty  meal  his  appetite 
craved  and  had  read  (with  a  new  facility,  after 
his  year  at  the  School)  some  parts  of  the  evening 
paper,  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed  —  and  Mikey 
was  glad  to  go.  His  long  hours  kept  him  safe 
from  "de  gang,"  and  the  love  of  his  job  filled 
his  life. 

The  horse  Mikey  drove  was  named  Ginger, 
for  the  same  reason,  apparently,  that  fat  New- 
foundland dogs  which  never  stray  from  their 
dooryards  are  almost  always  named  Rover, 
and  fidgety  little  black-and-tans  are  frequently 
called  Fido.  And  Mikey  loved  Ginger  as  other 
boys  love  a  girl  sweetheart  —  just  as  shyly  and 
just  as  idealizingly.  When  he  got  up  in  the 
mornings  and  dressed  in  the  dark,  he  thought 
how  soon  he  should  see  Ginger  —  and  was 
cheered;  and  when  he  went  home  evenings, 
tired  and  with  no  prospect  of  any  variety  or 
boyish  fun,  he  was  happy  because  he  knew  that 
in  the  morning  he  could  come  back  to  Ginger. 
Mikey  was  almost  demonstrative  with  Ginger  — 
when  no  one  was  by  to  see  or  hear  —  and  Gin- 
ger, who  was  not  used  to  deep  devotion  but 
was  none  the  less  hungry  for  it  therefore,  wel- 


278  JUST  FOLKS 

corned  Mikey's  timid  love-making  with  un- 
mistakable delight. 

So  Mikey  was  really  happy,  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life;  and  the  Caseys  were  very  comfort- 
able, for  the  first  time  in  their  lives ;  when  sun- 
dry persons  known  as  "freight-handlers"  decided 
to  strike  for  shorter  hours  and  longer  pay. 

One  evening,  after  the  freight-handlers  had 
been  "out"  for  several  days,  Mikey  came  home 
with  a  sick  heart.  He  was  not  quieter  than 
usual  —  that  would  hardly  have  been  possible  — 
but  Mary  knew  from  the  difference  in  his  step 
as  he  came  along  the  board  walk,  that  something 
was  the  matter.  She  thought  he  had  lost  his 
job,  but  she  dreaded  to  ask.  Mikey  sat  up  very 
late,  that  night,  reading  the  papers. 

The  next  morning  he  went  to  work  as  usual, 
and  that  evening  when  he  came  home  he  was 
not  passively  depressed  but  actively  distressed ; 
witness,  a  certain  glitter  in  his  usually  apathetic 
eyes,  and  a  deep-red  flush  in  his  sallow  cheeks 
which  wind  and  weather  had  not  yet  tanned. 
Inarticulate  Mikey  !  The  things  he  could  not 
say  had  a  way  of  expressing  themselves  in  tell- 
tale color  in  his  face.  And  somehow,  though 
the  color  was  always  the  same,  any  one  who  was 
at  all  alert  could  tell  what  emotion  it  signified. 
Mary  knew.  And  to-night  she  knew  it  meant 
excitement  which  had  in  it  resentment  and 
angry  purpose.     "Mikey  do  be  plottin'   some- 


JUST  FOLKS  279 

thin'  that  he  dread  t'  do,"  she  put  it  to  herself. 
And  it  was  all  she  could  do  to  keep  from  ques- 
tioning him.  But  experience  had  taught  her 
that  to  question  Mikey  was  to  set  him  stub- 
bornly on  guard  against  any  possible  leakage  of 
information. 

In  complete  silence,  but  evidently  with  sup- 
pressed excitement,  Mikey  ate  his  breakfast 
next  morning,  and  was  off  —  tending  to  set  at 
ease  Mary's  fear  that  his  job  was  lost.  But  all 
day  long  her  heart  was  heavy  with  a  nameless 
dread.  That  night  she  kept  Mikey's  supper 
on  the  stove  till  nine  o'clock,  silencing  the 
children's  questioning  —  but  not  her  own  !  — 
by  saying  "he  mus'  be  workin'  late."  And  when 
the  children  were  gone  to  bed,  she  sat  in  the 
kitchen  holding  her  work-worn  hands  and  trying 
not  to  be  afraid. 

At  length,  Mikey  came ;  and  at  sight  of  him, 
Mary's  heart  gave  a  great  bound  of  relief. 
"Yer  workin'  late,"  she  said;  "have  ye  had 
annythin'  t'  ate  ?"  She  hoped  Mikey  wouldn't 
know  she  had  been  sitting  up  for  him. 

"I  ain't  workin'  no  more,"  he  answered 
dully,  as  he  held  his  cold  hands  over  the  stove. 

Mary  didn't  know  what  to  say.  "Didn'  ye 
like  yer  job  ?"    she  managed,  at  last,  to  falter. 

Mikey  couldn't  trust  himself  to  answer  that; 
so  he  stood  silent,  for  a  moment,  holding  out 
his    hands    over    the    scarce-warm    lids.     Mary 


280  JUST  FOLKS 

lifted  off  one  of  the  covers  and  exposed  the  bed 
of  soft-coal  fire.  "I'll  have  t'  stop  kapein'  a 
fire  all  night,  pritty  soon,"  she  murmured;  so 
that  if  Mikey  wanted  to  consider  the  talk  about 
his  lost  job  at  an  end,  he  could. 

But  evidently  Mikey  wanted  to  talk. 
"Theer's  a  strike  on,"  he  said  sullenly. 

"Fer  th'  love  av  Hivin  !  wheer  ?" 

"Here.  The  freight-handlers  has  struck,  an' 
yeste'day  the  roads  put  on  strike-breakers  — 
scabs  —  an'  to-day  the  teamsters  refused  t' 
haul  freight  that  scabs  has  handled." 

"Air  you  wan  o'  thim  ?" 

"Yes." 

"An'  fer  no  grievance  o'  yer  own,  you've 
lost  yer  job  ?" 

"Yes." 

"I  call  that  pritty  tough." 

"In  wan  way,  'tis.     But  agin — " 

"Ah,  I  know  all  that  talk  'bout  stickin'  to- 
gether !  It  sound  pritty  whin  yer  sayin'  it 
—  like  all  kind  av  war  —  but  whin  ye  come  to 
do  it,  'tis  an  ugly  business.  Min  gits  together 
an'  talks  about  brotherhood  an'  war;  an' 
women  an'  childern  stays  at  home  an'  shivers  an' 
pays  the  pinalty.  Don't  I  know  ?  Ain't  I  seen  ? 
Strikes  manes  idle  min  an'  mischief;  idle  min 
an'  busy  saloons ;  idle  min  an'  full  pawnshops ; 
idle  min  an'  hungry  childern  an'  women  wid 
hivy  hearts.     Theer  seem  t'  be  an  awful  lot  av 


JUST  FOLKS  281 

law  'bout  some  t'ings  ;  wouldn'  ye  suppose  theer'd 
be  a  law  t'  settle  differunces  widout  goin'  t' 
war?" 

Mikey  listened  impatiently.  "Ye  don't  un- 
derstand" he  reiterated  doggedly  —  voicing  the 
eternal  argument  of  youth  against  age,  and  of 
age  against  youth. 

Earlier  in  that  same  evening  when  Mary 
sat  waiting  for  Mikey,  Hannah  Wexsmith 
climbed  the  steep,  dark  stairs  of  the  house  on 
Maxwell  Street.  When  she  reached  the  top 
of  the  first  flight,  a  door  opened  and  Mamie 
Gooch,  with  the  fretting  baby  in  her  arms, 
asked :  — 

"Did  ye  git  an  evenin'  paper  ?'* 

"Yes ;  ye  kin  look  at  it  while  I'm  lightin' 
the  hall  lamp." 

Before  attending  to  the  hall  light  to-night, 
however,  Hannah  lit  the  lamp  in  her  own  dark 
little  kitchen,  so  that  Mamie  Gooch  could  look 
at  the  paper.  There  was  pardonable  diplomacy 
in  this,  for  it  would  have  been  too  much  to  ask 
of  human  nature  to  let  Mrs.  Gooch  carry  that 
precious  penny  paper  into  her  own  domain, 
whence  it  would  never  have  issued  again  until 
it  had  been  read  through  —  murders,  strikes, 
jokes,  recipes,  evening  story,  and  all  —  all  but 
editorials  and  diplomatic  news  and  other  inex- 
plicable cumberings. 


282  JUST  FOLKS 

Mamie  Gooch's  concern  with  the  paper  to- 
night, however,  was  specific;  she  looked  to  it, 
not,  as  usual,  to  break  the  monotony  of  a  long, 
fretful  day,  but  for  assurance  that  the  morrow 
would  not  be  a  day  of  sharp  anxiety  compared 
to  which  tedium  would  be  heaven.  She  stood 
beneath  Hannah  Wexsmith's  light  and  scanned 
the  strike  news  eagerly. 

"My  God  !"  she  cried  presently,  "they're  or- 
dered out."  She  dropped  the  paper  and  covered 
her  eyes  with  her  free  hand. 

"I  knew  it  would  come,"  she  moaned;  "an' 
us  with  sickness  all  winter,  an'  behindhand 
with  everything.  He  told  me  this  mornin' 
he  was  afraid  it  would  come;  an'  'God  help  us 
if  it  does,'  he  says,  'but  I  got  to  stand  by  the 
union,  whatever  happens.'" 

"The  unions  is  all  the  poor  men  has,"  ven- 
tured Hannah.  "You  wouldn't  have  him  leave 
it,  would  you  ?" 

"No,"  feebly,  "I  don't  s'pose  I  would,  but  it's 
awful  hard,  this  goin'  out  when  he  has  a  good 
place,  an'  nothin'  agin  the  bosses,  an'  nothin' 
to  gain  if  his  side  wins." 

"You  ought  to  be  proud  that  you're  the  wife 
of  a  man  that's  willin'  to  make  sacrifices  for  his 
fellows.  Slosson  says  that's  the  great  thing 
about  unions ;  they  show  how  all  lab'ring  men 
has  one  cause,  he  says."  Slosson  was  Hannah's 
chief  lodger. 


JUST  FOLKS  283 

"Well,  I'd  be  willin'  fer  him  to  make  sacrifices 
out  o'  sympathy  fer  the  freight-handlers  if  we 
had  anythin'  to  sacrifice,  but  we  ain't ;  we  got 
all  we  can  do  to  get  along  an'  catch  up  with  what 
we're  owin',  at  best.  An'  this  means  no  money 
comin'  in  for  dear  knows  how  long,  an'  prob'ly 
his  job  lost,  an'  maybe  him  hurt  an'  laid  up,  if 
all  the  papers  say  about  riots  is  true." 

"Slosson  says  the  papers  lie  awful  about  the 
strikes ;    they're  all  fer  the  rich  men,  he  says." 

"That  may  be,"  angrily,  "but  it's  the  likes 
of  Slosson  that  begins  all  the  trouble.  He  ain't 
got  nobody  dependin'  on  him,  an'  nothing  to  do 
with  his  money  but  drink  it  up,  an'  it's  nothin' 
to  him  but  a  picnic  to  go  on  a  strike ;  he  can 
make  you  wait  fer  his  rent  money,  an'  the  union'll 
give  him  enough  to  buy  his  drinks.  No  wonder 
he  can  talk  loud  in  favor  of  going  out  to  help  the 
freight-handlers.  No  wonder  he  can  shout, 
'Let's  strike' ;  an'  get  my  man,  that's  home  that 
very  minute,  mindin'  the  sick  baby  so  I  can  finish 
my  ironin',  out  of  his  good  job  that  he  likes  an' 
is  satisfied  with  !" 

Hannah  stiffened  offendedly  when  her  lodger 
was  accused,  and  Mrs.  Gooch  took  herself  off 
to  her  own  kitchen,  moving  wearily,  the  baby 
still  fretting  miserably  in  her  arms. 

Hannah  lit  the  tiny  oil-stove  and  put  her  kettle 
on ;  her  supper  was  to  be  a  light  one,  consisting 
of  a  cup  of  tea,  without  milk,  and  a  thing  called 


284  JUST  FOLKS 

a  "rusk,"  purchasable  for  a  penny  and  eatable 
without  butter;  but  she  spread  one-half  of  her 
table  neatly,  with  one  of  her  red-and-white 
checked  table-covers  folded  double,  laid  primly 
out  her  cup  and  saucer  and  plate,  knife  and  fork 
and  spoon,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  cloth  set  the 
red  glass  salt-cellar  and  blue  glass  pepper-shaker 
that  were  the  pride  of  her  heart.  Hannah  always 
set  them  forth  whether  she  needed  them  or  not, 
just  as  to-night  she  supplied  her  place  with 
the  pathetically  unnecessary  knife  and  fork. 

While  her  tea  was  brewing  (Hannah  liked  a 
strong  infusion,  and  when  one  had  to  be  sparing 
of  leaves,  the  only  alternative  was  to  be  generous 
of  boiling),  she  read  her  paper,  striving,  in  her 
slow,  indecisive  way,  to  grasp  the  movements  of 
the  day's  battles,  but  mainly  intent  on  finding  in 
print  some  account  of  those  stupendous  services 
which  Slosson  was,  by  his  own  admission,  render- 
ing the  teamsters'  cause. 

The  newspaper  reports  were  most  confusing, 
though ;  she  could  make  little  out  of  them,  and 
nowhere  could  she  find  reference  to  Slosson. 
"The  rich  men  won't  let  the  papers  tell  about 
him,"  she  reflected. 

Then,  as  if  that  she  might  not  lack  understand- 
ing of  the  war  that  was  being  waged  between 
labor  and  capital,  there  was  a  heavy  step  on  the 
stairs ;  it  was  Gooch's,  and  there  was  distress 
as  well  as  weariness  in  the  leaden  shuffle  of  his 


JUST  FOLKS  285 

feet.  She  heard  their  kitchen  door  open,  and 
Mamie  Gooch  exclaim,  "Is  it  true?"  Then 
there  was  a  sharp  expression  of  despair,  audible 
above  the  baby's  crying,  and  the  door  closed. 

Hannah  felt  "awful  sorry"  for  the  Gooches. 
During  that  winter  when  he  had  been  so  long 
laid  up  with  inflammatory  rheumatism  and  the 
new  baby  had  come  to  the  household,  they 
had  got  deep  in  debt  —  the  kind  of  debt  out 
of  which  hardly  any  one  ever  escapes :  debt 
to  the  loan  shark.  It  was  "  ter'ble  hard,"  Hannah 
reflected,  for  Joe  Gooch  to  be  told  he  couldn't 
work,  when  he  needed  work  so  much ;  to  be  told 
that  he  couldn't  work  and  that  he'd  be  shot  if 
he  tried  to.  Slosson  had  informed  Hannah  of 
his  intentions.  What  with  his  terrible  prowess 
and  sleepless  activities,  "this  here  strike"  was 
going  to  be  kept  up  no  matter  how  long  it 
took  to  bring  "the  rich  men"  to  terms.  "No 
damned  cowards  was  going  to  be  allowed  to  quit 
the  fight." 

Suppose  —  in  Hannah's  mind  the  struggle  was 
narrowed  to  these  two  men  who  worked  at  the 
same  calling  and  dwelt  side  by  side  above  Mona- 
han's  grocery  —  suppose  Gooch  should  weaken, 
and  Slosson  should  kill  Gooch  ! 

Staggered  by  the  possibilities  which  to  her,  in 
her  tiny  mental  world,  were  probabilities,  Hannah 
cleared  away  after  her  frugal  meal  and  went 
downstairs  to  her  station  on  the  single  step,  in 


286  JUST  FOLKS 

the  shadow  of  Monahan's  sidewalk  display.  It 
had  been  raining,  and  the  sidewalk  was  sloppy ; 
but  Hannah  felt  that  she  could  not  endure  her 
agitating  thoughts  in  the  loneliness  of  her  tomb- 
like kitchen. 

About  eight  o'clock,  Joe  Gooch  crowded  past 
her  and  went  toward  Halsted  Street.  Hannah 
felt  sure  he  was  going  to  the  union  headquarters, 
and  that  he  was  going  to  protest,  and  she 
trembled  in  fear  of  an  immediate  encounter 
with  Slosson.  The  smaller  of  her  renting  rooms 
being  vacant,  and  Slosson  gone  on  a  strike, 
Hannah  had  her  own  worries,  too;  and  the 
problem  of  the  future,  as  it  concerned  her  rent 
and  her  occasional  "rusk,"  was  terrible  enough 
without  this  other  element  of  fear  about  Slosson 
and  Gooch. 

Joe  bought  a  paper  of  a  boy  on  the  corner, 
making  Hannah  regretful  that  she  had  not 
offered  him  hers  —  for  pennies  would  be  pre- 
cious, now  —  and  swung  on  to  a  northbound  car. 
Hannah  did  not  see  him  get  on  the  car.  It  would 
never  have  occurred  to  her  that  he  would  afford 
himself  carfare;  feminine  and  masculine  econo- 
mies will  always  be  mysteries  to  each  other. 

Joe  Gooch,  however,  if  he  was  faint  of  heart, 
was  not  going  to  protest  the  orders  of  his  union 
yet,  though  his  spirit  was  heavy  because  he 
could  not  yield  to  the  union's  demands  with  a 
better  grace.     Nothing  could  shake  his  earnest 


JUST  FOLKS  287 

conviction  that  the  union  was  the  workingman's 
only  hope;  and  though  he  doubted  the  justice 
of  this  particular  conflict  and  could  not  doubt, 
as  he  would  have  liked  to  doubt,  the  charges  of 
foul  play  that  were  being  laid  on  the  labor  leaders, 
there  never  was  any  possible  course  for  him  but 
that  which  his  union  dictated.  It  was  hard, 
God  knew ;  but  when  was  war  ever  easy  ?  And 
what  cause,  of  all  that  men  had  ever  fought  for, 
could  have  been  so  near  and  dear  to  the  men 
who  fought  and  the  women  and  children  who 
starved  and  suffered,  as  this  great  cause  the 
unions  stood  for  ?  It  was  hard  to  leave  Mamie 
crying;  to  think,  as  he  must  think,  of  the 
harassing  weeks  to  come.  But  what  would  you  ? 
This  was  war  ! 

The  paper  Gooch  bought  was  full  of  the  law- 
lessness of  the  strikers,  picturing  them  as  blood- 
thirsty miscreants  seeking  to  inaugurate  a  reign 
of  terror,  and  with  a  gesture  of  angry  disgust  he 
threw  it  on  the  floor  of  the  car  and  trampled  it 
under  foot. 

Down  town,  he  drifted  restlessly  from  one  spot 
where  the  conflict  came  to  an  issue,  to  another. 
At  the  mouth  of  an  alley  wherein  were  the 
shipping  platforms  of  a  big  mercantile  house, 
Gooch  saw  Slosson,  who  told  him  it  was  be- 
lieved this  house  meant  to  move  a  lot  of  goods 
with    non-union    niggers    driving,    that    night. 

"Pm  on  to  them,"  laughed  Slosson,  between 


288  JUST  FOLKS 

puffs  of  a  big,  bad  cigar.  "I'd  like  to  see  a 
wagon  leave  this  alley  to-night." 

There  were  a  dozen  other  pickets  near  by, 
and  across  the  street  as  many  police  lounged 
and  waited,  a  patrol  standing  ready  for  emer- 
gency. 

Gooch  turned  away  from  his  neighbor  in 
disgust. 

"Acts  as  if  the  whole  thing  was  on  his  shoul- 
ders," he  muttered  to  an  acquaintance  he  had 
picked  up  in  the  course  of  his  drifting;  "an'  it's 
fellers  like  him,  with  their  cheap  talk  and  no 
responsibilities,  that  has  got  hundreds  of  us  that's 
anxious  to  work  into  all  this  trouble.  It's  not 
the  unions  that's  wrong;  it's  men  like  Slosson, 
who  get  control  of  the  unions.  They'll  bring  us  a 
bad  name  with  the  public,  with  their  loud  talk  an' 
their  high-handedness.  An'  by  drivin'  us  into 
fights  we  can't  win,  they'll  get  us  the  reputation 
of  losin',  an'  that's  a  bad  thing  for  any  manor 
lot  of  men  to  have.  Yes,  sir ;  men  like  Slosson  is 
killin'  the  unions,  an'  we're  standin'  around 
helpless  an'  not  figurin'  at  all !" 

Gooch  found  no  lack  of  sympathizers  in  this 
view.  Men  he  stopped  to  talk  with  in  the  streets, 
men  he  got  into  conversation  with  in  one  or  two 
saloons  into  which  he  dropped  for  a  glass  of  beer, 
echoed  his  sentiments.  "From  the  d —  news- 
papers," he  told  one  man  he  met,  "you'd  think 
every  teamster  that's  out  was  so  crazy  to  strike, 


JUST  FOLKS  289 

they  couldn't  be  held  back.  But  you  know, 
an'  I  know,  that  there's  more  strikin'  against 
their  will  than  otherwise.  On'y  we're  keepin' 
still,  out  o'  loyalty  to  our  union,  an'  nothin's 
said  about  us.  An'  the  other  fellers  is  throwin' 
rocks  an'  gettin'  into  the  papers." 

It  happened  that  the  chance  acquaintance  to 
whom  Gooch  had  confided  his  opinion  of  Slos- 
son  had  a  misguided  zeal  for  the  cause,  or  a 
sneak's  desire  to  seem  zealous  at  small  cost, 
and  felt  constrained  to  tell  Slosson  what  his 
neighbor  had  said,  with  a  suggestion  that  Gooch 
might  need  watching. 

Slosson  gratefully  bought  the  man  three 
drinks  as  reward  for  this  information,  so  valu- 
able to  "the  leaders  of  this  here  fight — "  mean- 
ing Slosson,  who  had  rewarded  so  many  faithful 
that  day,  always  courteously  drinking  with 
them,  of  course,  that  by  this  time  he  began  to 
seem  to  himself  the  only  leader  worth  consider- 
ing. 

Gooch  was  up,  heating  water  to  soothe  the 
baby's  colic,  when  Slosson  came  staggering  up 
the  stairs,  knocking  his  feet  noisily  on  every 
step  and  cursing  loudly  at  the  darkness. 

"It's  nothin'  to  him,"  reflected  Gooch,  bitterly, 
as  he  heard  the  door  of  Hannah's  front  room 
slam,  "that  my  kid's  sick,  an'  I  dassent  spend 
a  cent  fer  medicine." 


XV 


The  strike  wore  on ;  but  it  was  a  losing  fight 
for  the  teamsters  and  the  freight-handlers. 
Non-union  men  were  handling  freight;  the 
hoped-for  sympathetic  strike  did  not  materialize  ; 
and  a  boy  "widout  principles"  was  driving 
Ginger. 

Mikey  sat  at  home,  a  great  deal  of  the  time 
—  as  if  fearful  to  trust  himself  elsewhere  in 
idleness  —  and  Mary  did  everything  she  could 
to  encourage  him.  She  did  not  approve  of  the 
strike,  but  she  could  see  that,  for  some  reason 
or  another,  Mikey  felt  in  honor  bound  to  sup- 
port it,  else  he  had  never  made  for  it  so  supreme 
a  sacrifice  as  Ginger.  And  she  knew  that  what- 
ever it  was  in  Mikey  which  made  him  give  up 
the  job  he  loved,  it  must  be  dealt  gently  with, 
just  now.  Even  if  it  was  an  unwise  sentiment, 
it  was  the  alternative  for  despair  and  a  slipping 
back  into  old  ways  of  the  days  before  "de  bean 
house." 

It  was  hard  to  make  the  children  understand. 
Johnny,  in  particular,  was  unsympathetic. 
"Aw,"  he  said  bitterly,  "Mikey's  goin'  t'  be 
jes'  like  Pa  —  wan  o'  thim  that's  got  such  gran' 
princ'ples  he  can't  work." 

290 


JUST  FOLKS  291 

"Hold  yer  tongue  agin  yer  brother!"  com- 
manded Mary,  who  always  took  up  the  cudgels 
of  defence  for  any  of  her  family  that  the  others 
maligned.  "He  didn'  give  up  that  job  widout 
some  dape  rayson.  If  he  was  diffrunt  from 
what  he  is,  we  might  try  t'  change  his  raysonin'. 
But  he's  wan  o'  thim  that  don't  change  aisy,  an' 
almos'  niver  changes  ixcipt  fer  the  worse  if  ye 
try  t'  drive  him.  Thim  quiet  kind,  that  don't 
let  hem  ner  haw  out  o'  thim,  is  mos'ly  that 
way.  I  don'  blame  Mikey.  I  tuck  me  own 
disapp'intmints  that  way  before  he  —  whin  he 
was  born.  By  an'  by  I  l'arned  better;  mebbe 
he  will,  whin  he've  had  as  much  poundin'  t'  git 
sinse  into  him  as  what  I've  had.  Mebbe  he 
won't  l'arn.  Annyway,  you  l'ave  him  be,  if 
you  don'  want  him  back  wid  the  gang  that  got 
him  put  up  before." 

It  was  a  pity  Mikey  could  not  have  over- 
heard his  mother's  defence ;  it  might  have  helped 
to  hearten  him. 

Beth  Tully  had  gone  home  to  see  her  mother 
and  to  take  a  much-needed  rest ;  so  she  was  not 
there  to  appeal  to.  The  factory  inspector 
could  not  be  expected  to  regard  sympathetically 
Mikey's  treatment  of  the  position  recently  got 
for  him ;  so  Mikey  dared  not  ask  there  for  an- 
other. He  tried,  as  best  he  could,  to  get  some 
kind  of  work  —  but  without  success.  Nobody, 
it   seemed,   wanted   a  boy  out  of  the  Reform 


292  JUST  FOLKS 

School.  The  Law  had  told  Mikey,  when  it 
"put  him  away,"  that  it  was  doing  this  for 
Mikey's  own  good.  But  Mikey  found  himself 
branded  almost  as  effectually  as  if  with  a  peni- 
tentiary sentence;  and  it  further  embittered 
that  young  soul  of  his  which  had  never  known 
much  else  but  bitterness.  Undoubtedly  there 
were  in  town  —  though  Mikey  did  not  know  it 
—  several  thousand  over-busy  but  warm-hearted 
employers  of  labor  who,  if  Mikey's  case  had  been 
sympathetically  presented  to  them,  would  have 
said:  "Certainly  !  Bring  the  boy  over  and  I'll 
see  that  he  gets  a  chance."  But  Beth  was 
away,  they  were  afraid  to  ask  Eleanor,  and 
Mikey  never  got  to  those  busy  men ;  he  didn't 
get  any  job. 

"T'ings  is  all  agin  me  !"  he  told  his  mother, 
one  night,  in  a  sudden  burst  of  despair. 

"T'ings  is  not  all  agin  ye!"  Mary  assured 
him,  trying  to  believe  her  own  assurance.  "I've 
lived  longer'n  you,  an'  I  tell  ye,  whin  t'ings 
git  so  hard  ye  t'ink  they  can't  git  worse,  they 
always  turn,  just  thin,  an'  git  better." 

But  it  was  hard  times  in  the  Henry  Street 
cellar,  and  Mary  had  finally  to  have  recourse 
to  what  the  children  dreaded,  and  with  good 
reason.  She  went  down  town  to  scrub.  This 
meant  leaving  home  every  afternoon  soon  after 
the  children  got  back  from  school.  It  meant 
that  Midget   and  Mollie  had  to  "mind"  little 


JUST  FOLKS  293 

Annie  and  put  her  to  bed;  that  they  had  to 
cook,  as  best  they  could,  the  supper  their  mother 
left  ready  for  them ;  it  meant  the  difference 
between  irksome  responsibility  and  that  care- 
freeness  which  Mary  was  prone  to  give  her 
children  whenever  she  could,  on  the  plea  that 
they'd  better  play  while  they  could  —  for  they'd 
get  little  enough  of    it  all  the  rest  of  their  lives. 

The  night  Mikey  came  home  from  fruitless 
job-hunting  and  found  his  mother  gone  to 
scrub,  something  bitterer  than  had  ever  been 
there  before  came  into  his  young  face  —  and 
stayed.  It  wasn't  the  scrubbing  that  hurt;  he 
was  inured  to  the  idea  of  his  mother  as  a  patient 
drudge.  It  was  that  this  seemed  to  him  the 
acknowledgment  of  his  defeat.  It  wasn't  any 
use !  Even  his  mother  had  given  up  hoping 
and  gone  to  scrub. 

It  was  one  o'clock  when  Mary  came  stumbling 
along  the  uneven  board  walk  of  the  pitchy  black 
passageway  between  her  tenement  and  the  next. 
Mikey  was  sitting  up,  in  the  old  wooden  rocker 
drawn  close  by  the  stove  whereon  he  had  the 
kettle  boiling  to  make  his  mother  some  tea. 

"Ma,"  he  said,  as  she  steeped  her  tea,  "some- 
thin'  is  wrong  !     I  can't  stand  it  no  longer." 

"What  d'ye  mane  ?"  she  cried,  setting  the 
kettle  dowm  sharply. 

"I  dunno  what  I  mane,"  he  answered  dully, 
"on'y  I  can't  stan'  much  more." 


294  JUST  FOLKS 

"That's  what  we  all  t'ink  whin  we're  young," 
she  soothed,  "but  theer  ain't  no  limit  t'  what 
a  body  kin  stand.  Don't  /  know  that  ?  D'ye 
know  how  I've  done  it  ?  I've  toP  mesilf  I 
could  surely  manage  t'  stan'  wan  more  day; 
an'  whin  that  day  was  done,  I'd  say  I'd  make 
out  t'  stan'  another  before  I'd  turn  coward. 
Theer's  more  than  me  has  got  t'rough  life  be 
playin'  that  little  game  wid  thimsilves,  I'm 
thinkin'.  Yer  young  t'  have  t'  l'arn  it,  Mikey 
bye.  An'  I'm  sorry  fer  ye.  But  ye  needn'  tell 
me  yer  pa's  son  is  goin'  t'  be  no  coward." 

"  Dyin's  easy,"  observed  Mikey,  briefly.  "  It's 
livin'  that's  too  hard  fer  most." 

"I  know,"  said  Mary,  "theer's  a  lot  in  that. 
But  go  t'  bed,  me  bye.  'Tis  wonderful  how 
much  more  wan  fale  like  standin',  in  the  mornin'." 

Meanwhile,  acute  distress  reigned  on  the 
floor  above  Monahan's  grocery.  The  Gooches 
had  kept  soul  and  body  together  on  the  pit- 
tance doled  out  from  the  union  fund,  though  it 
sufficed  neither  for  rent,  nor  shoes,  nor  medicine. 
But  Hannah  Wexsmith  was  in  despair ;  she  had 
succeeded  in  renting  her  small  room  for  a  dollar 
and  a  half  a  week,  but  Slosson  was  now  some 
twenty-odd  dollars  "behind-hand,"  two  months' 
rent  was  overdue,  and  "rusk"  for  luncheon  was 
no  longer  to  be  thought  of ;  she  could  not  afford 
even  to  buy  an  evening  paper.     Evicting  Slosson 


JUST  FOLKS  29s 

had  never  occurred  to  Hannah.  Had  he  not 
been  lodging  with  her  for  eight  years  —  ever 
since  Wexsmith  died  ?  Small  use  to  argue  that 
she  might  do  better  with  her  swell  front  room, 
with  its  trailing  starched  Nottingham,  its  "en- 
largements" of  Wexsmith  and  herself,  its  folding- 
bed  disguised  as  a  tin  mantel,  and  its  two  patent 
rockers.  She  had  small  cause  to  love  Slosson, 
but  she  was  accustomed  to  him,  and  Hannah 
shrank  from  nothing  so  much  as  from  change. 

"You  could  sell  that  for  more  than  enough 
to  pay  your  rent,"  the  landlord's  collector  had 
said,  nodding  at  an  old  kitchen  dresser  which 
had  come  with  Wexsmith's  mother  from  over- 
seas and  was,  though  Hannah  did  not  dream  it, 
a  handsome  and  valuable  bit  of  antique. 

Astonished,  hurt,  she  looked  at  the  dresser 
and  shook  her  head.  She  would  do  almost  any- 
thing to  pay  the  rent,  but  —  "Where  would  I 
keep  my  cups  ?"   she  said. 

No  more  could  she  conceive  her  widowed, 
self-supporting  life  without  Slosson;  so  Slosson 
stayed,  and  more  and  more  hours  out  of  each 
day  Hannah  sat  in  the  big  Jesuit  church  and 
prayed  that  the  Mother  of  God  would  help  her 
pay  the  rent ;  she  never  obtruded  upon  Heaven 
the  inconsiderable  fact  that  she  was  hungry. 

As  the  strike  dragged  its  weary  length  along, 
looking  every  day  more  and  more  hopeless  for 
the  strikers  —  ugly  tales  of  "graft"  filling  the 


296  JUST  FOLKS 

prints  and  the  air  meanwhile  —  the  fund  avail- 
able for  strikers'  maintenance  grew  more  and 
more  tragically  inadequate  to  keep  hunger  and 
eviction  writs  at  bay.  Sympathizing  members 
of  other  unions  were  faithfully  paying  their 
weekly  tithes  into  the  treasury  of  the  distressed, 
but  there  was  a  hitch  somewhere.  The  rumors 
about  the  dissipation  and  extravagance  of  the 
leaders  might  or  might  not  be  true,  but  the  loan 
sharks  and  pawnbrokers  were  waxing  rich,  the 
number  of  children  clamoring  for  employment, 
of  women  besieging  sweatshops  for  work,  had 
become  terrible. 

After  two  weeks,  Gooch's  dole  had  been  cut 
down  from  seven  dollars  to  five;  now,  for  a 
fortnight,  none  at  all  had  been  paid.  Some  one 
hanging  about  union  headquarters  on  the  same 
errand  as  himself  had  reported  to  Gooch,  when 
he  tried  in  vain  to  collect  his  due,  that  Slosson 
had  been  instrumental  in  cutting  it  off.  "He 
says  there's  little  enough  for  the  faithful,  with- 
out givin'  any  to  them  that's  no  love  fer  the 
union,"  the  man  said. 

"Love  fer  the  union!"  cried  Gooch.  "My 
God  !  If  I  ain't  got  it,  I'd  like  to  know  what's 
keepin'  me  from  killin'  that  Slosson  any  day  ? 
This  strike's  nothin'  but  a  long  picnic  to  him ; 
he  ain't  payin'  no  rent  to  his  poor,  starvin'  little 
landlady,  and  the  union's  keepin'  him  in  drinks 
an'  free  lunches,  an'  he's  got  no  work  to  do  — 


JUST  FOLKS  297 

no  wonder  he  can  talk  big  and  jeer  at  me  because 
I  want  to  go  back  to  work.  I'd  a'  killed  him 
long  ago,  if  it  wasn't  fer  bringin'  a  bad  name 
on  my  union  an'  our  fight." 

Lean,  haggard,  heavy-hearted,  Gooch  dragged 
himself  home  to  tell  Mamie  of  his  non-success 
and  consult  with  her  as  to  what  extreme  measure 
they  might  take  to  get  a  little  food  and  to  hold 
the  loan  shark  at  bay. 

Gooch's  mind,  like  poor  Hannah's,  had  travelled 
over  and  over  and  over,  so  many  weary  times, 
the  little  round  of  possibilities,  that  the  process 
had  finally  become  mechanical,  defeating  its  own 
ends.  Dazed,  unable  to  think,  he  climbed  the 
stairs.  It  was  supper-time,  and  it  took  all  the 
man's  courage  to  enter  his  home  empty-handed. 

The  kitchen  was  dark,  dark  as  a  pocket, 
though  the  great  towers  of  the  Jesuit  church 
were  outlined  against  a  gorgeous  sunset  as  he 
came  by,  and  it  would  be  two  hours  yet  ere  the 
summer  day  was  done. 

"Mamie  must  have  gone  out,"  he  said  to 
himself,  remembering  bitterly  that  they  had  had 
no  oil  for  a  week  and  that  the  last  of  their 
candles  was  all  but  gone.  "Perhaps  they're  in 
Mrs.  Wexsmith's."  But  they  weren't.  Mrs. 
Wexsmith  had  no  light  either,  and  was  sitting 
by  her  open  kitchen  door,  that  the  feeble  beacon 
in  the  hall,  which  the  landlord  supplied,  might 
mitigate  her  gloom. 


298  JUST  FOLKS 

Yes,  she  had  heard  Mrs.  Gooch  go  out  with 
the  two  children  an  hour  ago,  but  she  didn't 
speak,  and  Hannah  had  no  idea  where  they 
might  have  gone.  For  a  few  minutes  Gooch 
sat  talking  with  his  neighbor,  then  went  back 
to  his  own  rooms.  An  almost  overmastering 
impulse  to  flee  them  and  seek  refuge  anywhere 
came  to  him,  but  he  had  never  learned  to  shirk 
responsibility.  Mamie  and  the  kids  would  be 
coming  home  soon  to  a  dark,  supperless  house; 
at  least  he  would  be  there  when  they  came; 
perhaps,  together,  he  and  Mamie  might  devise 
something  to  be  done. 

An  hour  passed  —  two ;  grown  very  nervous, 
Gooch  got  up  and  "borrowed"  the  hall  light 
while  he  hunted  for  the  bit  of  candle  left  from 
last  night.  As  he  hunted,  his  eye  fell  upon  a 
scrap  of  paper :  — 

"I  have  taken  the  children  and  gone. 

"Mamie." 

Gone  !  Where  ?  Crazed,  he  thought  of  the 
river,  of  the  lake ;  tried  to  think  of  other  places 
whither  the  maddened  betook  themselves ;  but 
his  brain  refused  to  serve  him.  Habit,  the  habit 
of  careful  years,  made  him  set  the  lighted  lamp 
back  in  its  socket;  then  he  stumbled,  like  a 
mortally-stricken  thing  seeking  a  quiet  place  to 
die,  into  his  black  kitchen  and  shut  the  door. 

The  sense  of  time  was  lost  to  him ;  how  long 
he  sat,  he  could  not  know.     But  the  weakness 


JUST  FOLKS  299 

of  long  hunger  kept  him  dulled,  if  it  kept  him 
inactive,  and  his  sufferings  were  not  poignant; 
he  hadn't  strength  for  poignancy. 

He  didn't  hear  Hannah  come  in  from  church, 
where  the  lights  were  few  but  free  and  sufficient 
for  prayer.  He  didn't  hear  the  lodger  of  the 
little  room  come  home.  But  at  some  time  before 
the  hall  light  had  flickered  out,  he  heard  on  the 
stairs  the  staggering,  stumbling  step  of  Slosson. 
As  if  he  had  been  listening  for  it  —  perhaps  he 
had,  he  wasn't  conscious  as  to  that  —  Gooch 
got  up  and  opened  his  door.  As  Slosson  neared 
the  top,  he  raised  his  eyes  and  saw  Gooch,  the 
sickly  ray  from  the  hall  light,  with  its  worn  re- 
flector, falling  full  on  the  white  face  of  a  madman. 

"Geddout  o'  my  way,"  ordered  the  "leader," 
imperiously,  balancing  himself  with  difficulty 
and  making  nice  calculations  for  the  top  step. 

For  answer,  an  arm  shot  out,  and  a  heavy 
fist  landed  accurately  beneath  Slosson's  chin. 
There  was  a  cry,  a  succession  of  bumps,  then 
silence. 

Hannah  Wexsmith's  door  opened,  and  she 
stood  framed  in  it,  a  grotesque  little  figure  in  a 
coarse,  skimp  nightgown  buttoned  at  .the  throat 
with  a  big  white  china  button,  her  crimping  pins 
looking  like  horns  standing  up  from  her  head; 
only  the  last  lengths  of  terror  could  have  driven 
Hannah  Wexsmith  so  attired  into  the  view  of 
any  human  creature. 


300  JUST  FOLKS^ 

Gooch  looked,  in  the  wan  light,  the  most 
startled  of  the  three  persons  present ;  Hannah's 
other  lodger  seemed  rather  annoyed  by  the  dis- 
turbance than  concerned  with  its  outcome.  It 
never  occurred  either  to  him  or  to  Hannah  that 
Gooch  had  more  to  do  with  the  tragedy  than 
they  themselves.  Hannah  had  lost  uncounted 
hours'  sleep  in  the  expectation  that  Slosson 
would  tumble  down  those  stairs  and  be  killed. 

Hurriedly  she  lit  a  candle  in  Slosson's  room 
(he  never  needed  more,  and  it  was  all  she  could 
do  to  provide  oil  for  the  lodger  who  paid  and 
demanded)  and  commanded  the  tin  mantel  to 
become  a  bed,  whereon  the  limp  form  that 
Gooch  and  the  lodger  were  carrying  upstairs 
might  be  laid. 

There  was  a  doctor  at  the  corner,  and  it  was 
but  a  few  minutes  until  he  was  there,  pronounc- 
ing the  injuries  to  include  a  broken  arm  and  a 
skull  fracture,  probably  fatal. 

"Fell,  I  suppose?"  interrogated  the  doctor, 
perfunctorily.  Slosson's  intoxication  was  so  evi- 
dent that  there  seemed  but  one  way  for  him  to 
have  come  by  this  accident. 

"Yes,"  assented  Hannah,  adding,  as  if  in 
sufficient  extenuation,  "he've  had  th'  failin' 
these  many  years,  an'  I'm  expectin'  him  to  do 
this  ever  since  he  come  to  rent  of  me." 

Gooch,  still  only  half  comprehending  what 
was  going  on,  sat  in  one  of  Hannah's  patent 


JUST  FOLKS  301 

rockers,  his  head  in  his  hands ;  the  doctor 
thought  him  drunk,  too. 

"Was  he,"  nodding  toward  Gooch,  "with 
him?" 

"No,  oh,  no  !  he  lives  in  the  rear."  Then,  it 
suddenly  occurring  to  her,  "Mis'  Gooch  got 
home  all  right,  didn't  she,  Mr.  Gooch  ? " 

Gooch  lifted  his  haggard  face  and  shook  his 
head  in  a  despairing  negative. 

"Fer  the  love  of  mercy  !"  cried  Hannah,  for- 
getting Slosson  for  a  moment. 

The  doctor  was  writing  something  which 
would  doubtless  be  needed  in  a  death  certificate, 
when  there  was  a  sound  of  the  street-door  open- 
ing and  of  stumbling  steps  on  the  pitch-black 
stairway.  The  hall  light  had  gone  out,  and 
Hannah,  excitedly  unmindful  yet  of  her  strange 
attire,  seized  the  candle  and  hurried  to  the 
head  of  the  stairs. 

Gooch  was  close  behind  her,  his  mind,  which 
had  not  grasped  the  significance  of  anything 
since  Mamie's  note,  suddenly  alert  again  and 
full  of  terror.  The  glimmer  of  the  candle 
faintly  revealed  Mamie  struggling  up  the  stairs, 
the  baby  in  one  arm,  and  the  other  hand  direct- 
ing the  uncertain  steps  of  little  Clarence,  half 
dead  with  sleepiness. 

"Mis'  Gooch!"  cried  Hannah,  the  feeble 
beacon  quivering  in  her  hand,  "in  God's  name, 
where  you  bin  ?" 


302  JUST  FOLKS 

"Come  here  with  that  light,"  called  the 
doctor,  impatiently,  mentally  cursing  the  pitchy 
dark  and  these  people  who  acted  so  strangely. 

"Where's  your  lamps  ?"  he  demanded  of 
Hannah,  when  she  returned  with  the  candle. 

The  lodger  produced  his,  lit  it,  and  the  doctor 
ordered  it  held  for  him  while  he  made  his  way 
downstairs  to  telephone  for  an  ambulance. 

"Then  go  back  and  sit  with  him  till  I  come," 
he  said,  and  was  off,  stumbling  over  the  reunited 
Gooches  in  the  hall. 

By  the  light  of  his  departing  they  made  their 
way  into  their  own  black  kitchen,  and  when 
Hannah  followed  them  with  Slosson's  candle, 
she  found  Gooch  sobbing  violently,  his  head  on 
Mamie's  shoulder.  The  baby  was  still  in  the 
crook  of  that  much-enduring  arm,  and  Clarence 
had  stretched  his  utterly  fagged  little  body 
on  the  floor.  Mamie,  meanwhile,  was  explain- 
ing:  — 

"When  we  went,  Clarence  was  cryin'  fer  his 
supper,"  she  said,  "an'  I  knew  there  wouldn't 
be  none  for  him,  an'  the  baby  was  frettin'  terrible, 
an'  I  was  just  wore  out.  I  can't  stand  it  no 
more,  thinks  I,  an'  I'll  go  —  mebby  to  the  lake, 
mebby  to  ask  some  one  for  somethin'  fer  these 
childern  to  eat,  whose  pa  wants  to  work  an' 
dassent.  Then  I  thought  o'  Shea  an'  them  that's 
said  to  be  makin'  their  big  money  out  o'  this 
strike,  an'  are  livin'  grand  in  hotels  while  we 


JUST  FOLKS  303 

starve.  An'  I'll  go  to  Shea,  thinks  I,  an'  ast 
him  what  he's  got  to  say  to  Clarence  when  he 
cries  fer  his  supper.  So  I  walked  all  the  way  to 
the  Briggs  House,  carryin'  the  baby  here,  an' 
draggin'  Clarence  by  the  hand,  an'  there  I  set 
an'  waited  to  see  his  nibs  until  twelve  o'clock. 
He  wasn't  in  to  supper,  they  said,  an'  so  I  said  I'd 
wait.  I  had  to  wait!"  shrilly,  "I  couldn't 
'a'  walked  back  if  I'd  'a'  wanted  to.  Clarence 
fretted  hisself  to  sleep,  smellin'  the  supper  in 
the  restyraunt,  an'  I  was  all  wore  out  'n'  couldn't 
no  more  'a'  got  myself  back  home,  lettin'  alone 
the  kids,  than  I  could  'a'  flew.  So  there  was 
nothin'  to  do  but  wait,  an'  when  they  wanted  to 
put  me  out,  I  wouldn't  go,  an'  told  'em  why. 
So  they  leaved  me  stay  there  an'  wait  fer  him, 
but  he  didn't  come,  an'  when  it  got  twelve 
o'clock  some  fellers  that  was  settin'  'round  took 
up  a  little  money  amongst  'em  an'  bought  me  an' 
Clarence  somethin'  to  eat  an'  gave  me  money  to 
ride  home  an'  to  buy  a  few  little  things.  Was 
you  scared  about  me  ?"  she  finished,  unable  to 
help  enjoying  the  drama  of  the  situation. 

"Scared?"  Gooch  lifted  his  head.  "I  was 
mad,  Mamie  —  loony,  insane.  An',"  —  realiza- 
tion returning  to  him  in  a  cruel  flash  —  "My 
God !  what  I  done !  I  knocked  that  Slosson 
downstairs." 

An  exclamation  of  horror  from  Hannah  seemed 
their  first  intimation  of  her  presence,  and  Gooch, 


304  JUST  FOLKS 

looking  at  her,  shuddered  at  the  accusation  in 
her  face. 

"Is  he  goin'  to  die  ?"    he  asked. 

"The  doctor  said  he  might." 

"Good  God,  Mamie,  then  Pm  a  murderer!" 

At  two  o'clock  the  ambulance  came  to  take 
Slosson  to  the  County  Hospital. 

"Anything  to  go  with  him  ?"  asked  one  of  the 
stretchermen. 

Hannah  flushed  as  she  answered  in  the  nega- 
tive ;  in  eight  years  this  subject  had  not  ceased 
to  be  a  sore  point  with  her.  In  all  the  years 
of  his  stay  with  her,  there  had  never  been  a  time 
when  Slosson,  closing  behind  him  the  door  of 
Hannah's  best  room,  had  left  in  it  a  single  posses- 
sion of  his  own,  to  the  extent  of  a  collar-button. 
Everything  in  the  world  that  he  owned,  Slosson 
carried  on  his  back  or  in  his  pockets.  He  never 
bought  any  clean  or  new  clothes  until  those 
he  was  wearing  refused  to  do  duty  for  another 
day.  And  when  he  bought  new,  he  came 
home  without  the  old.  No  persuasion  of  Han- 
nah's could  induce  him  to  own  even  an  extra  pair 
of  socks,  though  she  offered  to  wash  and  darn 
them ;  and  such  a  thing  as  a  night-shirt  was  not 
to  be  thought  of  for  an  instant.  Only  the 
force  of  habit  or  lack  of  initiative  to  go  else- 
where brought  Slosson  back  and  back  to  the 
best  room  for  eight  years  ;   so  far  as  the  anchor- 


JUST  FOLKS  305 

age  of  possessions  was  concerned,  any  room  in 
Chicago  was  as  much  his  home. 

No,  he  had  never  been  married  that  she  knew 
of,  Hannah  told  the  ambulance  attendant  who 
interrogated  her,  pencil  and  entrance  blank  in 
hand.  He  had  a  brother,  she  believed,  living 
in  or  near  Three  Oaks,  Michigan;  that  was 
the  only  relative  she  had  ever  heard  of.  And 
he  belonged  to  the  teamsters'  union  —  to  the 
wholesale  delivery  branch  —  and  they  would 
pay  for  his  care  or  his  burying.  His  age  was 
forty-four,  and  he  had  "the  failin',"  and  he  had 
—  here  Hannah  crossed  herself,  but  was  unable 
to  exorcise  visions  of  her  soul  in  everlasting 
torment  —  fallen  downstairs  while  drunk,  as 
she  had  always  feared  he  would. 

When  the  ambulance  had  gone,  Hannah  tip- 
toed out  of  the  room  as  respectfully  as  if  it  were 
still  Slosson's,  and  betook  herself  and  the  rem- 
nant of  candle  to  the  stifling,  unventilated 
closet  where  she  had  her  bed. 

It  was  a  hot,  muggy  night  at  the  end  of  June, 
and  no  cool  of  approaching  dawn  had  found  its 
way  to  Blue  Island  Avenue.  But  it  was  not  the 
heat  Hannah  minded,  as  she  sank  on  her  knees 
to  pray ;  it  was  not  her  old,  familiar  perplexity 
about  the  rent.  It  was  a  new  terror,  and  such 
as  drove  her  almost  mad  to  contemplate. 

Morning  found  her  still  on  her  knees,  stiff 
with  cramp  and  fatigue,  but  praying,  praying; 


306  JUST  FOLKS 

and  ever  the  words  of  Gooch  rang  like  a  knell  in 
her  ears :  "Good  God,  Mamie,  then  I'm  a  mur- 
derer!" A  murderer!  And  she  had  lied  to 
shield  him  ! 

At  five  o'clock  she  was  in  the  church  en- 
treating confession,  startling  the  stolid  German 
priest  with  her  anguished  countenance  and 
manner  of  great  guilt. 

At  six  oclock  she  climbed  the  stairs  again. 
Part  of  the  confessor's  advice  had  been:  "Go 
home  and  make  yourself  a  good  stiff  cup  of  black 
coffee ;  you're  so  weak  you  can't  think.  Then 
you  must  see  if  your  neighbor  won't  confess  his 
crime.  If  he  does,  it  isn't  likely  he'll  get  much 
punishment  from  any  court  —  not  in  the  circum- 
stances —  even  if  the  man  dies.  But  if  he  doesn't 
confess  and  take  what's  coming  to  him,  your 
neighbor'll  be  a  wretched  man  to  the  day  of  his 
death.  Try  to  make  him  tell ;  it'll  be  better  for 
him  to  tell  than  for  you  to  tell  on  him.  But  if 
he  won't  tell,  and  there's  an  inquest  or  examina- 
tion, you  must  tell  what  you  heard  this  man 
say." 

Hannah  was  unable  to  obey  about  the  coffee, 
but  she  had  a  little  tea  and  made  herself  as  strong 
a  cup  of  this  as  she  could.  While  she  was  drink- 
ing it,  she  heard  the  Gooches  stirring  in  their 
kitchen.  A  few  moments  later  their  door  opened. 
The  sickening  sound  of  sobbing  came  to  Hannah, 
mingled    with    the    crying    of    children.     Then 


i 


JUST  FOLKS  307 

Gooch  went  downstairs,  and  the  street-door 
closed  behind  him,  while  Mamie,  with  a  wild 
cry  of  despair,  came  and  threw  herself  into  Han- 
nah's arms. 

The  night  shift  at  Maxwell  Street  Station  was 
yawning  through  the  last  tedious  hours  of  duty 
when  Gooch  walked  up  to  the  desk  and  an- 
nounced in  a  quiet,  determined  voice  :  — 

"I've  murdered  a  man." 

The  sergeant  looked  up,  interested ;  no  mere 
tale  of  theft  or  assault,  this,  or  story  of  some 
one  missing ;  this  was  "  real  business." 

Gooch  needed  little  questioning  to  draw  forth 
his  story,  which  he  told  with  evident  straight- 
forwardness and  no    attempt  at  extenuation. 

There  had  been  "bad  blood"  between  him 
and  Slosson  since  the  beginning  of  the  strike, 
he  explained,  and  then  when  he  heard  that 
Slosson  had  kept  him  from  getting  his  weekly 
dole  and  said  he  was  unfaithful  to  the  union, 
and  the  children  cried  for  food,  Gooch  knew  he 
was  going  to  hurt  Slosson.  Finally,  Mamie 
took  the  kids  and  left ;  that  was  the  last  straw. 
"I  thought  she  had  drowned  herself,  or  some- 
thing like  that,  an'  I  was  crazy.  I  never  could 
'a'  dreamed  she  was  only  down  to  see  Shea — " 

"What's  that  ?"  One  of  the  roundsmen  who 
had  been  reading  a  morning  paper  sat  forward 
in  his  arm-chair.     Gooch  repeated. 


308  JUST  FOLKS 

"That  must  be  the  woman  it  tells  about  here." 
He  pointed  to  a  paragraph  headed :  — 

WIFE  APPEALS  TO  SHEA 

Wife  and    Starving    Children    of    Striking 

Teamster  Gooch  Sit  for  Hours  in 

Briggs  House  Waiting  to  see  Shea 

Then  followed  a  "stickful"  of  copy  written  by  a 
reporter  doing  strike  duty  at  the  Briggs  House; 
he  had  been  one  of  the  "fellers"  to  contribute 
to  the  midnight  supper  of  Mamie  and  the 
children,  and  in  the  absence  of  more  important 
news  his  little  "Side-light  on  the  Strike"  found 
place  in  the  morning  paper. 

Gooch  read  the  paragraph  with  more  distress, 
seemingly,  than  he  had  evinced  over  the  murder. 

"She  oughtn't  never  to've  done  it,"  he  said 
with  spirit.  "People'll  think  I  set  her  up  to  it, 
that  I  ain't  got  spunk  to  stand  up  an'  take 
what's  comin'  to  me  in  a  fight.  But,"  humbly, 
"I  hadn't  oughter  done  what  I  done,  neither. 
Every  union  man  that  hits  a  blow  except  in 
self-defence  is  hurtin'  all  the  others,  bringin' 
'em  a  bad  name.  I  oughtn't  to  ha'  done  it,  no 
matter  what  Slosson  done.  The  way  I  feel 
about  the  union  is,  my  life'd  be  only  too  little 
to  give  if  it'd  help  the  cause  any.  Why  couldn't 
I  'a'  had  patience,  jes'  patience  to  wait  ?  But 
God  A'mighty,  it's  hard  to  hear  Mamie  an'  the 


JUST  FOLKS  309 

kids  cry  for  hunger  !  An'  now  my  life's  as  good 
as  gone,  an'  the  shame  of  it,  an'  no  good  done 
to  nobody!" 

Gooch  was  booked  by  sympathetic  jailers, 
and  when  he  had  been  locked  up,  an  officer 
went  over  to  find  Mamie  and  do  what  he  could 
to  reassure  her. 

By  ten  o'clock  Mamie  was  overrun  with  re- 
porters, men  and  women.  The  floor  above 
Monahan's  became,  momentarily,  the  centre- 
front  of  the  stage  whereon  the  great  strike  was 
enacting  its  drama,  and  the  spot  light  of  the  daily 
presswas  toplayfor  a  brief  while  between  Gooch's 
cell  at  Maxwell  Street  Station,  Slosson's  cot  at 
the  "County,"  and  the  rooms  where  Mamie 
and  Hannah  sat  and  waited  they  knew  not 
what. 

The  first  reporter  brought  good  news.  Slosson 
was  not  dead.  Nobody  cared  much  on  Slos- 
son's account,  but  everybody  cared  on  Gooch's. 
Toward  noon  a  telegram  came  from  Three  Oaks, 
Michigan,  whither  word  had  been  wired  that 
Slosson  was  probably  fatally  hurt.  "Just  bury 
him  in  Chicago,"  was  the  grief-stricken  response. 
But  Slosson  declined  to  be  buried  yet.  The 
fall  that  would  have  killed  any  other  man  had 
only  inconvenienced  him;  his  arm  was  broken, 
but  the  succession  of  bumps  had  not  materially 
damaged  his  head.  "Drunken  men's  luck," 
the  surgeon  muttered.     Slosson  was  so  far  out  of 


310  JUST  FOLKS 

danger  before  night  that  Gooch  was  let  out  on 
bail,  which  was  easily  forthcoming  after  the 
evening  papers  had  been  read. 

He  and  Mamie  and  the  kids  had  Hannah  as 
their  guest  for  supper  in  the  kitchen  which  only 
last  night  had  been  so  dark.  None  of  them 
could  eat  much,  except  the  children,  who  were 
not  moved  by  the  excitement  of  the  evening 
papers.  Gooch  was  very  anxious  and  read 
every  line  of  every  account. 

"I  asked  them  young  men  to  be  sure  an'  put 
in  about  how  I  stand  about  the  union,"  he  said. 
"I  was  afraid  they  wouldn't.  I  don't  want  any 
one  to  think  we're  not  true  till  death,  Mamie 
an'   me." 

"They  won't,"  comforted  Hannah,  wishing  she 
could  feel  as  sure  no  one  would  think  ill  of  her 
for  having  gone  to  confession  with  her  hair  in 
curling  pins;  "an'  what  d'ye  think?  One  o' 
them  ladies  that  writes  pieces  fer  the  paper 
said  she  could  get  me  a  new  dresser,  an'  forty 
dollars  besides,  for  my  old  kitchen  one  that 
belonged  to  his  ma.  So  poor  Slosson  needn't 
worry  'bout  his  rent." 


XVI 

Beth  came  back  a  week  after  the  episode  of 
Gooch  and  Slosson  and  found,  after  a  month's 
absence,  so  much  history  to  hear  that  it  seemed 
as  if  she  would  never  be  able  to  catch  up  with  it. 

Adam  Spear's  observations  on  the  strike  were 
particularly  voluble.  It  seemed  a  thousand  pities 
that  such  astute  knowledge  of  the  entire  situa- 
tion should  blush  unseen  beside  Liza's  fireless 
stove  —  Adam  had  the  stove  habit  so  fixedly 
that  he  could  never  get  far  away  from  it  even  in 
summer  when  the  stove  stood  cold  for  months 
and  a  gasoline  substitute  did  its  work.  Hart 
Ferris  gave  Adam's  vast  knowledge  what  public- 
ity he  could,  thanking  his  stars  that  the  paper 
he  worked  for  was  not  The  News  which  Adam 
read  religiously ;  but  though  it  seemed  to  enter- 
tain some  persons,  it  did  nothing  discoverable 
to  settle  the  strike. 

Meanwhile,  Beth  was  busy  about  many  things, 
but  trying  all  the  while  to  get  Mikey  a  job.  She 
was  very  much  incensed  to  find  that  such  jobs 
as  she  could  get  did  not  appeal  to  Mikey  ! 

"I  believe,"  she  told  Ferris  one  evening, 
"that  Mikey's  going  to  be  just  like  his  pa.  He 
doesn't  seem  to  want  to  work." 

311 


312  JUST  FOLKS 

"Then  why  bother  with  him  ?"  said  Ferris, 
feeling  very  philosophical. 

Beth  didn't  deign  any  reply.  The  next  time 
she  was  at  Mary's  and  found  Mikey  home,  she 
asked  him  to  walk  back  with  her  toward  Maxwell 
Street.  Under  the  safe  cover  of  the  swarming 
streets,  she  talked  to  him ;  tried  to  arouse  his 
sense  of  manhood,  of  responsibility. 

"It  isn't  a  question  of  what  you  like  to  do, 
Mikey,"  she  told  him.  "It's  a  question  of 
what  you  must  do.  You're  the  man  of  that 
family  now,  and  you  must  try  to  help  your 
mother  all  you  can.  Think  of  all  she  has 
suffered  !  You  don't  want  Johnny  and  Dewey 
to  have  things  as  hard  as  you  had  them,  do 
you  ?  You  don't  want  Midget  and  Mollie  and 
little  Annie  to  —  to  go  the  way  poor  Angela 
Ann  did,  do  you  ?  Isn't  any  work  that'll 
keep  them  fed  and  clothed  and  give  them  a  fair 
chance  for  happiness  worth  working  at,  even  if 
you  don't  happen  to  like  it  ?" 

Mikey  hung  his  head  and  made  no  answer. 

"You  know,"  Beth  went  on,  "how  bitter  it 
used  to  make  you  and  Angela,  because  your  pa 
wouldn't  work  at  what  he  could  get  to  do.  If 
he  had  done  right,  you  wouldn't  have  suffered  all 
you've  had  to  suffer.  If  he  had  done  right, 
Angela  Ann  wouldn't  have  been  where  she  is 
to-day." 

Again  no  answer. 


JUST  FOLKS  313 

"  Is  it  because  you  don't  feel  well,  Mikey  ? 
Does  it  hurt  you  when  you  work  ?" 

"No'm." 

"Weren't  you  happy  when  you  were  working 
—  before  the  strike  ?" 

By  the  light  of  the  street  lamp  they  were  pass- 
ing, Beth  could  see  the  red  spots  burning  on 
Mikey's  high  cheek-bones. 

Weren't  you  ?"   she  persisted. 
Yes'm." 

:c  Well,  then  — "  Beth  thought  she  heard  some- 
thing like  a  stifled  sob.  "Mikey!"  she  cried 
softly,  but  with  unmistakable  eagerness,  as 
the  light  of  a  great  illumination  broke  in  upon 
her.     "Is  it  —  is  it  Ginger?" 

Mikey  nodded.  , 

"That  was  it,"  Beth  told  Mary,  next  day. 
"He  can't  forget  Ginger.  That's  awfully  pitiful, 
Mary.  I'm  going  to  see  the  man  who  hired 
Mikey  before,  and  tell  him  a  few  things,  and  see 
if  he  won't  take  Mikey  back." 

But  the  man  wouldn't.  The  strike  had  been 
peculiarly  uncalled  for  and  unjust.  Their  firm 
had  always  treated  their  drivers  with  the  ut- 
most fairness  and  generosity.  Yet  the  drivers, 
for  no  grievance  of  their  own,  had  struck  and 
made  the  firm  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  cost  it  a 
great  deal  of  money.  Not  one  of  these  ingrates 
should  come  back  if,  to  keep  their  places  filled,  the 


3H  JUST  FOLKS 

firm  had  to  send  an  arsenal  along  with  every 
strike-breaker. 

Beth  couldn't  blame  him,  and  she  said  so. 
"But  the  pity  of  Mikey's  case  remains,"  she  said. 

The  man  admitted  this,  and  gave  her  five 
dollars  for  Mary  Casey. 

"I  guess,"  said  Beth,  when  she  had  thanked 
him,  "what  I'll  have  to  do  is  to  see  your  barn 
boss  about  buying  Ginger,  so  I  can  present 
him  to  some  other  firm  that'll  let  Mikey  drive." 

The  man  on  whom  she  was  calling,  laughed. 
"You're  a  friend  that  stops  at  nothing,  aren't 
you  ?"  he  said.  "But  I'd  let  that  boy  get  over 
his  notion  —  that's  the  easiest  way  of  all." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  little  Beth  re- 
plied. "He's  had  so  much  to  'get  over'  in  his 
life,  poor  Mikey!" 

She  hadn't  intended  this  for  a  fine  parting 
shot,  but  it  stuck  in  that  man's  consciousness 
all  day  and  for  many  a  day.  He  didn't  relent 
about  Mikey,  but  he  sent  word  to  the  barn  boss  : 

"If  anybody  offers  to  buy  a  horse  named 
Ginger,  let  him  go  cheap." 

It  was  a  question  in  Beth's  mind  whether 
Mikey  would  be  made  the  happier  by  knowing 
she  had  tried,  and  failed,  or  whether  she  would 
better  keep  the  knowledge  of  her  undertaking 
from  him.  Thinking  she  would  talk  it  over  with 
Mary,  she  went  over  to  Henry  Street  about  that 


JUST  FOLKS  315 

time  on  Sunday  afternoon  when,  experience 
had  taught  her,  Mary  was  most  likely  to  be 
alone. 

Mary,  meantime,  had  had  an  eventful  day. 
That  morning  she  was  up  betimes,  meaning 
to  go  to  early  mass  in  the  basement  of  the 
church  before  "drissy  folks"  were  abroad  in 
their  Sunday  finery.  For  more  than  one  reason 
Mary  avoided  the  later  masses ;  her  rags  were 
small  shame  to  her  compared  with  the  more 
than  half-suspicious  inquiries  of  acquaintances 
as  to  the  whereabouts  of  Angela  Ann. 

"'Tis  more  lies  I'm  after  tellin',"  said  poor 
Mary,  "than  th'  praste  kin  iver  take  aff  o'  me. 
'N'  ag'in  I  do  pinance  enough  t'  kape  me  busy 
half  me  time,  an'  go  t'  git  me. holy  c'munion, 
I'm  not  out  o'  the  prisence  o  'th'  blissed  Sacra- 
ment before  I'm  havin'  t'  lie  ag'in  t'  save  that 
poor,  silly  girl's  name  !" 

This  morning,  however,  in  spite  of  her  early 
rising  and  her  efforts  to  get  to  seven  o'clock 
mass,  events  conspired  to  thwart  her  intentions. 
Mollie  woke  up  with  a  headache,  and  Johnny 
had  to  be  despatched  on  a  vinegar-borrowing 
expedition,  so  that  the  time-honored  application 
of  brown  paper  soaked  in  vinegar  might  be 
made  to  the  poor  little  head.  Annie  cried  lustily 
with  a  colicky  cry,  and  Mary  had  to  hasten  the 
boiling  of  tea,  that  she  might  have  a  good,  hot 
cup  to  soothe  her. 


316  JUST  FOLKS 

It  was  nine  o'clock  before  Mary  could  get  away ; 
the  last  mass  in  the  basement  was  at  nine  o'clock. 
But  the  Elevation  of  the  Host  had  been  cele- 
brated before  she  got  there,  and  she  turned 
disappointedly  to  the  stairs ;  she  would  have  to 
wait  for  half-past  nine  mass  in  the  main  church. 
It  seemed  as  if  Providence  were  balking  her, 
but  on  the  stairway  she  learned  the  reason  why. 

"Ye  mus'  be  sure  t'  say  a  spicial  prayer  on 
this  mass,"  said  one  woman  who  passed  her  to 
another,  "'tis  the  first  mass  this  young  praste 
have  iver  said,  an'  a  blissin'  go  wid  it  t'  thim  that 
prays  wid  him." 

Saul  on  the  Damascus  road  had  no  more  over- 
whelming sense  of  arrest  and  redirection  than 
Mary  Casey  had,  as,  trembling  with  excitement, 
she  reached  the  top  of  the  stairway. 

"Think  o'  that  now,"  she  told  herself,  "an' 
if  I  had  come  t'  th'  airly  mass  I'd  niver  'a'  known 
it!" 

Hardly  would  her  knees  uphold  her  until  she 
could  sink  into  an  obscure  pew,  far  back  under 
the  gallery.  And  there,  at  the  tense  moment 
when  the  silver-toned  bell  proclaimed  commemo- 
ration of  the  great  lifting-up  in  suffering,  Mary 
raised  her  faith-full  prayer:  "A'mighty  God, 
sind  me  girl  back  t'  me  !  But  if  it  don'  be  in  yer 
heart  t'  do  that  much,  make  her  a  good  girl 
wheeriver  she  be.    Fer  th'  love  av  Christ,  Amin." 

Not  often  in  any  lifetime,   perhaps,   does  it 


JUST*  FOLKS  317 

come  to  pass  that  one  prays  with  such  sublime 
assurance  of  crying  straight  into  the  listening  ear 
of  Omnipotence  that  will  inevitably  keep  faith 
with  poor  flesh.  For  nigh  on  to  forty  years  Mary 
Casey  had  listened  to  reiterations  of  the  old  and 
new  Covenants,  but  they  had  fallen  on  sterile 
ground  in  her  soul.  It  was  the  little  chance 
remark  about  the  new  priest's  first  mass,  dropping 
into  harrowed  and  watered  soil,  that  flowered  in 
immediate  faith. 

The  mass  ended  and  the  throngs  of  worshippers 
passed  out,  but  Mary  sat  unheeded  and  un- 
heeding in  her  dim  corner,  her  simple  mind  grap- 
pling with  the  stupendous  idea  of  its  Covenant 
with  Heaven.  > 

Before  she  had  any  realizing  sense  of  time, 
the  church  had  filled  again  for  high  mass. 
Then  the  lighting  of  the  great  white  altar  fas- 
cinated her,  and  she  felt  an  intense  desire  to  live 
again  through  such  a  moment  of  assurance  as 
she  had  lately  experienced  —  to  hear  that  bell 
ring  again,  to  smell  the  incense,  and  to  believe 
that  in  some  wonderful,  wonderful  way  it  was  all 
a  part  of  that  prayer  of  hers  that  Heaven  was 
bound  to  answer. 

So  she  stayed  on,  in  her  far-away  pew,  to  the 
remotest  corner  of  which  she  was  crowded  as  the 
enormous  church  filled  to  its  capacity.  With  the 
entrance  of  the  preacher  into  the  pulpit,  though, 


318  JUST  FOLKS 

she  was  conscious  of  a  distinct  "let-down." 
She  had  never  liked  sermons ;  they  dealt  with 
things  so  formally.  Even  when  the  priests  made 
their  greatest  efforts  to  be  plain-spoken  and 
understandable,  she  seldom  got  any  personal  help 
from  their  discourse.  They  were  prone  to 
denunciations  of  adultery  and  drunkenness  and 
other  sins  of  which  she  was  innocent,  and  to 
vague  exhortations  looking  toward  a  hereafter  on 
which  her  imagination  had  never  taken  any 
but  the  feeblest  hold.  But  what  was  the  priest 
saying  ?  Something  about  a  little  household 
that  the  Lord  had  loved,  and  one  of  its  two  sisters 
had  gone  astray  ! 

The  woman  sitting  next  to  Mary  nudged  her 
other  neighbor  and  glanced  in  the  direction  of 
Mary's  face,  thrust  forward  so  as  not  to  lose  a 
syllable,  the  tears  chasing  each  other  unheeded 
down  its  furrows.  In  her  lap  Mary's  gnarled 
hands  were  clasped  in  painful  intensity. 

Over  and  over,  since  she  was  a  tiny  child  in 
Ireland,  she  had  heard  this  Catholic  rendering 
of  Mary  of  Bethany's  story,  but  it  had  never 
meant  anything  to  her.  To-day  it  meant  every- 
thing. 

She  was  full  of  the  wonder  of  it  when  Beth 
came,  and  together  the  two  sat  in  the  "parlie" 
that  was  waiting  for  Angela,  and  talked  of  her 
coming  home. 

The  shadows  grew  deeper  and  deeper  as  they 


JUST  FOLKS  319 

talked.  The  fervor  of  Mary's  faith  communi- 
cated itself  to  the  girl  who  had  lived  so  much  less 
life  than  she,  and  Beth  thought  she  had  never 
lived  through  such  a  vivid  hour. 

When  she  rose  to  go,  Mary  said,  "Wait  till 
I  git  a  light,"  and  went  into  the  kitchen  to  get 
the  lamp.  (She  never  had  oil  to  spare  for  the 
one  in  the  "parlie.")  As  she  lighted  the  lamp, 
a  sound  at  the  door  caused  her  nearly  to  drop 
the  light.  Hurrying  to  the  back  door,  she  threw 
it  open,  and  with  the  lamp  in  one  hand,  stood 
peering  out  into  the  black  yard. 

"Here,  pussy,  pussy!"  she  called.  Then,  as 
her  call  was  answered,  "My  God  !  what  did  I  tell 
ye  ?     'Tis  the  wan-eyed  cat !" 

The  next  morning  the  postman  brought  a  letter. 
Mary  was  not  surprised  to  get  it.  She  could 
not  read  it,  but  she  could  make  out  the  signature, 
written  in  the  large,  unformed  hand  wherewith 
Angela  had  covered  every  available  space  in  the 
days  of  her  brief  but  laborious  apprenticeship 
to  the  art  of  writing. 

With  trembling  hand  Mary  tucked  the  letter 
in  her  bosom,  hastily  got  ready  herself  and 
Annie,  and  went  over  to  Beth's.  But  Beth  was 
gone  on  her  day's  rounds,  and  Mary  had  to  take 
the  letter  to  her  sister  Maggie's.  Maggie  was 
younger  and  had  enjoyed  more  educational 
advantages.     She  could  "r'ade  printin'"  easily, 


320  JUST  FOLKS 

and  "writin"'  fairly  well  if  it  hadn't  too  many 
flourishes. 

"She  says,"  spelled  out  Mrs.  Kavanagh, 
"'Dear  Ma,  I'm  at  —  West  Randolph  Street 
I'm  sick  I'm  afraid  to  go  home  count  of  Pa  Your 
Loving  daughter  Angela  Ann  Casey.'  I'll  go 
wid  ye,"  finished  Maggie  in  the  same  breath. 

"  She  haven't  heard  about  her  pa  !"  cried  Mary. 

Out  of  her  small  store  of  tawdry  finery  Maggie 
lent  several  articles  to  make  Mary  "  look  more 
drissy,"  and  while  they  got  ready  for  their 
momentous  journey,  Mary  related  the  events 
of  the  day  before. 

"I  knew,"  said  Maggie,  "theer  was  more  in 
that  wan-eyed  cat  ner  what  annywan  but  me  an' 
the  fortune-teller  belaved." 

The  number  they  sought  on  West  Randolph 
Street  was  not  far  from  the  fateful  Haymarket 
Square.  There  was  a  store  on  the  ground 
floor,  with  living-rooms  behind.  And  above, 
a  long  flight  of  oil-cloth-covered  stairs  led  to  a 
"hotel." 

They  inquired  first  in  the  store,  but  no  one 
there  had  ever  heard  of  Angela  Ann.  Then, 
with  fast-beating  hearts,  the  women  mounted  to 
the  office  of  the  hotel,  an  inside  room  facing  the 
head  of  the  first  flight  of  stairs.  The  door  stood 
open,  and  they  looked,  before  entering,  into  a 
gas-lighted  room  furnished  with  yellow-painted 
wooden  arm-chairs  ranged  along  the  walls  and 


JUST  FOLKS  321 

flanked  by  a  sparser  row  of  cuspidors ;  and  near 
the  door,  behind  a  small  desk  like  a  butcher- 
store  cashier's  sat  the  "clerk,"  chewing  vigor- 
ously and  expectorating  without  accuracy. 

"Yes,  she  has  a  room  here,"  he  answered  to 
Mary's  question,  "hall  room,  rear,  third  floor." 

"In  a  minute!"  called  Angela  Ann's  voice 
when  Mary  had  knocked. 

"My  God,  'tis  hersilf,"  sobbed  Mary,  and 
fell  a-weeping  violently. 

"Ma  !"  cried  Angela  Ann,  and  threw  open  the 
door.  She  had  been  in  bed  when  they  knocked, 
and  had  not  waited  to  put  on  her  clothes  when 
she  heard  her  mother's  voice.  At  the  touch 
of  her,  the  clinging  -clasp  of  her  poor,  thin, 
cold  little  arms,  Mary  grew  hysterical. 

"Don't,  Ma,  don't,"  begged  Angela. 

"She've  grieved  hersilf  sick  over  ye,"  said 
Maggie,  unable  to  forbear  this  much  of  a  repri- 
mand now  that  the  sinner  was  found.  "Iver 
since  ye  wint  she've  been  like  wan  crazy.  Come, 
Mary,  now  ye've  got  her,  brace  up  !" 

"Sure,  Ma,"  echoed  the  girl,  "now  ye've  got 
me,  brace  up.  I  ain't  never  goin'  t'  lave  ye  no 
more,  Ma  —  honest  t'  God,  I  ain't." 

"Wheer  ye  been?"  Mary  raised  her  head 
and,  drawing  back  from  the  girl,  peered  anxiously 
into  her  face.  "In  God's  name,  Ang'la  Ann, 
wheer  you  been  ?  Tell  me  ye've  kep'  dacint, 
girl ;  tell  me  ye've  kep'  dacint !" 


322  JUST  FOLKS 

Angela  sat  down  on  the  dingy,  disordered 
bed  and  began  to  cry,  hiding  her  face  in  her 
hands.  For  a  long  moment  the  silence,  save  for 
her  soft  sobbing,  was  profound.  Then  a  low 
moan  escaped  Mary,  a  moan  of  anguish  inexpress- 
ible, showing  how  deeply,  notwithstanding  her 
resolution  of  yesterday,  she  had  cherished  the 
hope  of  her  daughter's  safety. 

Angela  raised  her  head.  The  pain  in  her 
mother's  moan  was  beyond  her  comprehension, 
and  she  could  understand  it  only  as  horror 
and  condemnation. 

"Are  ye  —  are  ye  goin'  t'  t'row  me  off?" 
she  cried. 

Mary  looked  at  her  in  pity  that  she  could  ask 
such  a  thing.  "T'row  ye  off  ?  Ah,  me  girl ! 
If  ye'll  on'y  stick  t'  me  as  long  as  I'll  stick  t'  you, 
'tis  all  I'll  ask  o'  Hivin.  'Tis  fer  yer  sake  I  was 
prayin'  no  harm  had  come  t'  ye  —  not  fer  mine. 
Whativer  happen  t'  ye,  ye're  me  Ang'la  Ann 
that  I  nursed  from  yer  first  brith." 

"An'  —  an'  Pa  ?"  said  Angela. 

For  a  moment,  in  the  joy  of  seeing  her  girl 
and  the  pain  of  knowing  the  girl's  innocence 
was  gone,  Mary  had  forgotten  Pa.  Now,  it  all 
came  flooding  back  to  her  —  that  culmination 
in  the  drama  of  her  life  —  and  the  pride  of  Pa's 
splendid  death  suddenly  transformed  her. 

"Have  ye  heerd  nothin'  'bout  yer  pa  ?" 
she    asked  Angela.     It   did   not   seem    possible 


JUST  FOLKS  323 

to  Mary  there  was  any  one  who  had  not  heard 
his  fame. 

Angela's  bitterness  against  her  pa  did  not 
melt  at  news  of  his  death;  it  was  only  when 
Mary's  further  descriptions  suggested  the  horror 
of  his  sufferings,  that  Angela's  tears  began  to 
fall. 

"If  yer  pa  was  here,"  Mary  went  on,  "he'd 
be  fer  havin'  a  tur'ble  wingince  on  the  felly  that 
lid  ye  away." 

Angela  Ann  smiled  grimly,  through  her  tears. 
"I  guess  theer's  quite  a  few  pas  lookin'  fer 
'im,"  she  said,  "but  they  don'  never  seem  t'  fin' 
him." 

"Did  he  promise  t'  marry  ye  ?"  asked  Mary, 
anxiously.  > 

"He  did  not!  He  promised  t'  make  me  a 
primmy  donny  !" 

"What's  that?" 

"'Tis  a  kin'  of  actress  that  wear  tights  an' 
sing.  I'm  after  r'adin'  in  books  how  gran'  they 
be,  an'  in  the  papers  it  tell  how  all  the  swell 
fellies  do  be  runnin'  after  'em  with  diming  neck- 
lusses  an'  marryin'  of  'em.  An'  'tis  all  a  lie!" 
she  finished,  shrilly. 

"Ye  see!"  Mary  could  not  refrain  from  re- 
minding her.  "I  tol'  ye  thim  theayters  was  all 
wrong.  We  kind  o'  t'ought  it  might  be  thim 
that  got  ye,  an'  yer  pa  wint  t'  see  this  here 
Halberg,   whin  we  foun'   the   card   out   o'   yer 


324  JUST  FOLKS 

pocke'  book.  But  he  said  he  niver  hear  tell 
o'  ye." 

"Did  Pa  go  theer  ?"  questioned  Angela  Ann, 
eagerly.  She  was  all  interest  to  know  how  the 
search  for  her  had  been  carried  on.  "An'  was 
my  pitcher  in  the  papers  ?" 

"Yer  pitcher  was  not  in  the  papers,"  her 
mother  answered,  "an'  not  wan  but  yer  own 
kin  know  yeVe  been  missin' ;  so  ye  kin  hoi'  up 
yer  hid  an'  look  th'  world  in  the  face.  An' 
may  God  fergive  yer  mother  th'  lies  she've  toP 
t'  save  yer  name  !" 

Thus  encouraged  about  the  future,  Angela 
seemed  inclined  to  tell  about  the  past. 

Yes,  it  had  been  Halberg,  she  admitted.  A 
young  fellow  she  used  to  meet  up  at  Peter  the 
Greek's  had  taken  her  to  a  couple  o'  shows  and 
asked  her  how  she'd  like  to  be  a  "primmy 
donny."  And  when  she  said  she  would,  he  had 
taken  her  to  see  Halberg.  Halberg  "engaged" 
her.  He  told  her  not  to  say  anything  to  her 
folks  about  her  new  job  until  she  could  send 
home  her  first  week's  pay  and  surprise  them. 
And  she  "needn't  bring  no  clothes  along,"  be- 
cause the  "company"  would  furnish  her  with 
what  she  needed. 

"Did  they?"  interrupted  Maggie,  breath- 
lessly eager. 

"They  did!"  said  Angela,  her  pallid  cheeks 
flushing  at  the  recollection.     She  had  a  strange 


JUST  FOLKS  325 

feeling  toward  her  mother  and  aunt ;  partly  she 
felt  scorn  of  their  uncomprehendingness,  and 
partly  she  felt  shame  and  could  not  think  how 
to  tell  them  what  things  had  befallen  her. 

She  had  been  sent  out  of  town,  down  to  those 
same  soft-coal  regions  of  Illinois  where  her  pa 
had  met  his  death.  And  the  "director"  of  the 
"company"  had  tried  to  teach  her  a  few  tricks 
of  dancing  and  singing.  They  went  from  town 
to  town  and  "performed"  in  the  saloons.  And 
after  a  while,  Angela  fell  sick  and  was  abandoned 
by  the  rest.  Then  a  foul-tongued,  soft-hearted 
woman  whose  husband  kept  the  saloon  where 
Angela  lay  ill,  was  touched  by  the  girl's  exceed- 
ing distress  and  let  her  stay  there  until  she  re- 
covered and  earned  enough  money,  by  lamp- 
filling  and  dishwashing  and  like  chores,  to  pay 
her  way  home. 

"'You  better  go  back  t'  yer  ma  —  that's 
wheer  you  better  go,'  that  woman  says  to  me; 
an'  Sata'd'y  mornin'  she  bundled  me  off.  But 
I  was  scared  to  go  home  right  t'  wanst,  till  I 
seen  how  it  was  goin'  t'  be  —  so  I  come  here. 
An'  I  have  been  awful  sick-like  iver  since  I  come." 

"Why,  in  Hivin's  name!"  Maggie  broke  in, 
"did  ye  niver  sind  yer  ma  a  line  before,  t'  say 
ye  were  alive  ?  Ye  needn'  'a'  tol  wheer  ye  was, 
but  ye  could  'a'  said  ye  were  in  th'  land  o'  th' 
livin',  surely  ?" 

"I    was    'shamed,"    whimpered    Angela.     "I 


326  JUST  FOLKS 

t'ought  ye  wouldn'  keer  wheer  I  was,  whin  I 
wasn'  doin'  daycint."" 

"T'ink  o'  that,  now  !"  cried  Mary.  "That's 
all  a  girl  do  know  about  her  ma  !  Whin  yer  a 
mother  yersilf  ye'll  know  better,  an'  not  till 
thin,  I  suppose." 

There  was  a  great  deal  about  Angela's  story 
that  her  mother  could  not  understand,  and 
there  were  some  things  about  it  that  Angela 
herself  did  not  understand.  But  little  Beth, 
"putting  two  and  two  together,"  saw  some  things 
very  clearly. 

"Mary,"  she  said,  sitting  in  the  parlie  and 
hearing  the  story  of  Angela  Ann,  "that  proves 
to  me  what  I've  suspected  for  a  long  time.  I 
didn't  know  about  O.  Halberg  and  his  end  of  it, 
but  I've  been  pretty  sure  that  Peter  the  Greek 
was  a  bad  man,  and  that  he  was  using  his  store 
as  a  place  to  lure  young  girls.  That  fellow  that 
was  so  'nice'  to  poor  little  Angela,  was  what  is 
called  a  cadet.  He  makes  it  his  business  to  fill 
girls'  heads  with  flighty  notions  and  to  lead 
them  away  from  home.  This  is  a  pretty  foxy 
game  —  this  particular  one  —  but  don't  you 
see  ?  Peter  draws  the  girls  there  with  his  candy, 
and  soda,  and  fruit,  and  nuts,  his  electric  piano, 
and  all  that.  He  has  one  or  two  of  these  cadets 
who  treat  the  girls  to  ice-cream  and  flatter  them 
and  take  them  to  cheap  shows.  Then,  when 
they  get  the  girl's  confidence,  they  take  her  to 


JUST  FOLKS  327 

Halberg,  and  he  sells  her  or  rents  her  to  some 
wretch  who  takes  her  out  of  town  and  into  a 
life  of  the  —  the  vilest  shame.  Do  you  see, 
Angela?" 

Angela  nodded. 

"Now,"  Beth  went  on,  "I've  thought  for 
some  time  that  this  Peter  was  doing  something 
of  the  sort.  In  my  work,  I  trace  a  lot  of  trouble 
to  his  store.  But  I've  never* been  able  to  get  a 
good  case  on  him.  This  is  a  Greek  ward,  you 
know  —  the  Greeks  are  voters  —  they  stand 
together,  solid.  It's  hard  to  prove  anything 
against  one  of  them.  They  lie  for  one  another 
—  like  the  Italians  —  and  not  against  one  an- 
other like  the  Irish  and  the  Jews.  And  the 
police,  controlled  by  politics,  don't  like  to  prose- 
cute a  solid  mass  of  voters  —  see  ?  Now,  I 
didn't  know  what  Peter  was  doing  with  girls  he 
lured  away,  but  I  have  felt  sure  he  was  luring 
them.     If  you  would  prosecute  — " 

"Sure  I'll  prosecute!"  cried  Mary,  her  eyes 
flashing  fury. 

"Wait!"  said  Beth.  "To  prosecute,  you 
must  testify  —  you  must  tell  about  Angela  — 
she  must  tell  about  herself  —  and  you  can't 
keep  it  secret  —  can't  keep  it  out  of  the  papers." 

Mary's  expression  changed  —  protest  was  in 
every  line  of  her  countenance.  "I  couldn'  do 
that!"    she  murmured.     "I'd  niver  do  that." 

"Not  to  save  some  other  mothers'  girls  ?" 


328  JUST  FOLKS 

Mary  shook  her  head.  "I'd  like  to,"  she 
said,  "but  I  couldn'  —  fer  Ang'la's  sake." 

"I  don'  keer,  Ma  !"  cried  Angela.  "I'd  just 
as  lieves  tell !" 

Her  mother  looked  at  her  in  astonishment, 
"Ye  don'  know  what  yer  sayin',"  she  declared. 

"An'  you  don'  know  what  they're  doin'  t' 
girls  !"  was  Angela's  retort. 

Beth,  quivering  with  fury  against  the  de- 
stroyers of  girlhood,  pleaded  with  Mary  —  in 
vain.  Angela  Ann,  smarting  under  the  sense  of 
her  unspeakable  wrongs,  pleaded  too. 

"I  can't,"  said  Mary,  weeping  piteously.  "I 
can't  do't!" 

So  Beth  went  away.  She  usually  went  and 
came  between  Maxwell  and  Henry  Streets  by 
way  of  Waller  Street,  the  eastern,  as  Blue  Island 
Avenue  was  the  western,  boundary  of  Henry 
Street.  But  to-day  as  she  reached  the  sidewalk 
level,  she  turned  toward  Blue  Island  Avenue. 
Interest  in  Angela's  return  was  still  so  fresh 
that  none  of  the  small  Caseys  offered,  as  was 
their  custom,  to  accompany  Beth  "a  piece"  of 
her  way  home. 

Peter  the  Greek  knew  her  enmity  —  knew  she 
had  warned  girls  against  going  to  his  store  and 
parents  against  letting  their  girls  go.  He  would 
not  receive  her  call  affably,  she  was  well  aware. 
But  the  resolution  of  her  short,  quick  steps  never 
faltered. 


JUST  FOLKS  329 

Peter's  store  was  not  splendid,  except  by- 
comparison  with  other  shops  "on  Blue  Islan'." 
Halsted  Street  had  a  dozen  Greek  stores,  be- 
tween Twelfth  Street  and  Madison,  that  made 
Peter  Demapopulos's  look  very  small  and  dingy 
indeed.  But  Peter  was  doing  very  well,  finan- 
cially, and  had  not  —  for  a  Greek  so  recently 
advanced  from  basket-peddling  to  shop-keeping 
—  a  weary  while  to  wait  between  his  present 
and  the  dreamed-of  day  when  he  should  own  a 
gaudy  store  on  Halsted  Street.  Even  now,  his 
stock  showed  that  genius  for  display  where- 
with the  Greek  seems  always  able  to  invest  his 
colorful  commodities.  And  there  were  the  soda- 
fountain,  the  electric  piano,  the  ice-cream  tables, 
the  candies  —  more  than  enough  to  lure  Angela 
from  that  back  kitchen  ! 

In  the  front  of  the  store,  as  Beth  entered,  a 
boy  was  buying  cocoanut  taffy.  Peter  was  not 
visible.  The  Greek  who  was  in  charge,  called 
himself  Peter's  brother;  Peter  said  he  was  no 
relation.  Beth  was  familiar  with  this  disputed 
relationship,  and  indifferent  to  the  truth  about 
it. 

"Where's  Peter?"  she  asked,  when  the  cus- 
tomer was  gone. 

"Down  town  !"  said  "brother"  so  promptly 
that  Beth  was  sure  he  lied. 

But  there  was  nothing  to  do,  then,  but  go 
away. 


XVII 

In  the  Nineteenth  Ward  were  one  or  two 
Settlements  so  much  smaller  than  Hull  House 
as  seldom  to  be  heard  of  beyond  the  immediate 
neighborhood.  In  one  of  them,  Beth  Tully  re- 
ceived, once  a  week,  the  obligatory  visits  of  her 
probation  boys. 

Her  visits  to  their  homes  were  seldom  wholly 
satisfactory,  for  the  boys  themselves  were  not 
often  to  be  found.  Either  they  were  "workin'," 
or  they  were  "to  school,"  or  they  were  "out 
playin',"  far  be  it  from  the  mothers  to  know 
where.  But  Monday  nights  when  Beth  brought 
them  together  at  the  Settlement,  she  was  able 
to  gather  —  not  in  confession  so  much  as  in 
gossip  —  a  good  deal  of  information  about  her 
charges. 

On  the  night  of  that  eventful  Monday  when 
Angela  Ann  returned,  Beth  was  at  her  post  by 
the  big  table  in  the  main  hall.  She  always  made 
the  occasion  as  social  as  possible,  so  the  boys 
would  like  to  come.  And  they  came  here  more 
readily  than  to  any  other  place. 

To-night,  the  usual  activities  of  the  smaller 
Settlements  —  which  are  the  same  as  those  of 
the  larger,  only  they  don't  go  so  far  and  are 

330 


JUST  FOLKS  331 

not  so  numerous  —  were  in  fairly  full  blast. 
There  was  bowling  below-stairs,  a  choral  society 
in  the  Guild  Hall,  dancing  in  the  big  room  where 
babies  were  " kindergartened "  by  day;  type- 
writers were  clicking  in  the  commercial  school- 
room, sewing-machines  whirring  in  the  dress- 
making class,  and  awful,  groaning  noises  proceed- 
ing from  a  distant,  third-story  room  where  a 
brass  band  was  in  process  of  trying  to  be  a  band, 
although  at  present  every  bit  of  brass  seemed 
rankly  individualistic. 

Beth's  manner  with  her  probation  boys  was  a 
delightful  study.  They  felt  her  youth,  her  sym- 
pathy, and  they  lost  when  with  her  as  much  of 
their  self-consciousness  as  boys  ever  lose  in  the 
presence  of  any  one.  But  they  never  got  fa- 
miliar, never  lost  a  certain  awe  of  her  not  as 
she  was  but  as  she  could  so  easily  become  if  a 
fellow  overestimated  her  sentiment  and  under- 
estimated her  lightning-quick  intelligence. 

For  instance,  there  was  Angelo  Vacca  who 
was  struggling  —  not  too  hard  —  with  a  gypsy 
spirit  which  loved  any  chance  shelter  better 
than  a  home  and  any  game  of  chance  better 
than  the  best  steady  income  that  ever  drove  a 
body  mad  with  its  dead  certainty.  Angelo  sold 
papers,  nominally,  and  kept  two  very  bright 
black  eyes  wide  open  for  "better"  business.  In 
order  to  insure  his  return  home  nights  and  his 
fair  division  of  spoils  with  his  widowed  "mud- 


332  JUST  FOLKS 

der,"  Beth  had  devised  a  scheme  whereby  Mrs. 
Vacca  was  to  put  down  on  a  paper  each  night 
the  sum  Angelo  took  to  her,  and  to  make  oppo- 
site to  it  a  mark  X,  to  signify  that  Angelo  had 
slept  at  home.  Once  a  week  this  paper  was  pre- 
sented to  Beth's  scrutiny. 

"Forty-seven  cents,"  she  would  read  aloud 
from  the  paper  bearing  what  Angelo  called  "me 
mudder's  slignature,"  "fifty-three  cents,  nineteen 
cents  —  how's  that,  Angelo  ?" 

"Bad  day!"  Angelo  would  say  promptly, 
"got  stuck." 

Beth  knew  that  if  Angelo  ever  "got  stuck" 
with  papers  it  was  because  he  was  trying  an- 
other "line"  unsuccessfully.  Evidently  his 
"mudder"  had  protested,  too,  because  next  day 
the  record  was  sixty-one  cents. 

Then,  "Dollar-nineteen !  How's  that,  An- 
gelo?" 

"Fine  day!"  answered  Angelo,  smiling  en- 
gagingly and  showing  all  his  white  teeth.  "Work 
very  hard." 

Beth  knew  he  had  never  earned  a  dollar- 
nineteen  selling  papers ;  and  that  if  he  had 
given  his  "mudder"  so  much,  it  was  gambler 
generosity,  arguing  a  much  larger  sum  retained. 
But  she  kept  her  own  counsel,  feeling  sure  that 
some  of  the  other  boys  would  throw  light  on 
the  dark  places  of  Angelo's  history.  Sure 
enough  !     Herman  Rubovitz  had  failed  to  take 


JUST  FOLKS  333 

home  any  wages  on  a  certain  pay  day.  His  pa 
had  beat  him  and  his  ma  had  sent  word  "by  de 
p'leece  lady."  Herman  tried  to  exonerate  him- 
self by  pleading  the  temptation,  nay,  the  forcible 
insistence  of  certain  bad  boys  that  he  "shoot 
craps."  What  boys  ?  Well,  August  Ankowitzer, 
and  Tony  Kapusta,  and  Johnny  Mishtawa,  and 
Angelo  Vacca. 

Next  time  a  suspiciously  large  amount  ap- 
peared above  Mrs.  Vacca's  "slignature,"  Beth's 
blue  eyes  lifted  from  the  paper  and  fastened 
themselves  with  terrible  searchingness  on  Angelo's 
face. 

"Hand  'em  over  !"   she  commanded  briefly. 

"What'm?"  asked  Angelo,  wide-eyed  with 
surprise.  > 

"The  dice  —  the  bones!"  was  her  laconic 
order. 

Angelo  "dug  down"  with  a  grimy  hand  and 
produced  them. 

"Now  the  loaded  ones  !"  said  Beth,  matter- 
of-factly. 

"Dewhat?" 

"The  loaded  ones  !  You  don't  win  money  like 
that  playin'  on  the  level." 

Angelo  looked  a  minute  at  the  stern  face  of 
the  little  "p'leece  lady,"  then  dug  into  another 
pocket  and  handed  over  the  loaded  dice. 

"Gee  !"  he  remarked  admiringly,  as  he  threw 
them  down,  "but  yer  a  wise  guy  !" 


334  JUST  FOLKS 

"Humph!"  said  Beth,  loftily,  as  if  that 
were  a  very  trifling  exhibition  of  her  occult 
powers. 

This  Monday  evening,  Hart  Ferris  was  there 

—  as  he  often  was  —  to  wait  for  her  and  go, 
perhaps,  for  a  little  car  ride  after  hep  work  was 
done.  She  had  tried  to  get  him  at  the  office, 
during  the  afternoon,  to  tell  him  that  Angela 
Ann  was  found,  but  had  not  succeeded  in  find- 
ing him. 

Ferris  came  into  the  hall  of  the  Settlement 
while  some  of  the  last  of  the  boys  were  report- 
ing to  Beth.  He  thought  he  could  tell,  as  he 
sat  watching  her,  that  something  out  of  the 
ordinary  had  happened ;  but  maybe  it  was  only 
after  he  heard  that  he  remembered  having  felt 
that  way. 

When  the  last  boy  was  gone,  Beth  drew  a 
sigh  of  mingled  weariness  and  relief.  Then  she 
looked  up  at  Ferris,  standing  over  her. 

Beth  was  not  one  of  those  who  waste  time, 
when  about  to  disclose  news,  with  asking: 
"What  do  you  suppose?"  and  waiting  for  a 
needless  assurance  :  "I  can't  guess."  Her  direct 
ways  had  nothing  to  do  with  such  dillydallying 

—  unless  she  was  obviously  mischievous  and 
teasing. 

"Angela  Ann  has  come  home  !"   she  said. 

"She  has  ?     Where  was  she  ?" 

Beth  told  him ;    told  him,  too,  how  Angela 


JUST  FOLKS  33S 

had  got  there.  She  was  in  the  midst  of  telling 
him  about  it  when  Mary  Casey  came  in. 

"Why,  Mary!"  said  Beth.  She  read  in 
Mary's  face  that  this  was  no  casual  call,  and  if 
she  had  not  so  read,  first  thought  would  have 
reminded  her  that  on  no  ordinary  errand  would 
Mary  have  left  home  this  evening  of  Angela 
Ann's  return  —  not  even  to  go  down  town  to  her 
scrubbing. 

Mary  misinterpreted  Beth's  surprise.  "I  ain' 
workin'  this  avenin',"  she  explained ;  "I  couldn'." 

"Of  course  you  couldn't,"  Beth  agreed. 

"I  —  I  don'  t'ink  you  understan',"  Mary 
went  on,  falteringly.  "It  isn'  'count  o'  Ang'la 
comin'  home  —  not  jest.  I  couldn'  afford  t' 
stay  home  jest  fer  that  —  me  bein'  the  on'y  wan 
of  us  wid  an  income,  these  days.  It's  —  it's  — " 
She  looked  at  Ferris,  and  then  appealingly  at 
Beth. 

"He  knows,  Mary,"  said  Beth,  gently,  "but 
if  you'd  rather  he  would  go  away — " 

Mary  seemed  to  hesitate  for  a  moment,  as  if 
trying  to  decide.  Then,  "No,  he  better  stay," 
she  said,  "he'll  understan'."  She  glanced  about 
the  Settlement  hall,  to  see  if  there  were  any  one 
else  in  sight,  and  having  satisfied  herself  that 
there  was  no  danger  of  being  overheard,  she  drew 
closer  to  Beth  and  Ferris,  and  began :  — 

"After  you  wint  away  to-day,  Miss  Beth,  an'  the 
childern  got  t'rough  rubberin'  at  Ang'la  Ann  an' 


336  JUST  FOLKS 

wint  back  t9  theer  play,  Ang'la  got  talkin' 
more  free-like  —  'bout  what  she'd  been  t'rough, 
I  mane."  Here  Mary's  face  began  to  burn  with 
crimson  shame.  "Theer  was  a  lot  she  tried 
t'  till  me  that  I  couldn't  understan'  —  seem  like 
it  was  clear  beyon'  my  way  o'  t'inkin'.  But 
Mikey  —  he  was  theer  an'  heerd  'er  —  he  —  must 
'a'  understood,  fer  I  niver  see  anny  wan  look  the 
way  he  looked.  He  didn'  let  hem  ner  haw  out  o' 
him  —  you  know  his  way  !  But  thim  rid  spots  on 
his  cheeks  burned  like  two  flames  that's  fanned ; 
an'  theer  was  a  look  in  the  eyes  of  him  that  froze 
me  more'n  all  Ang'la  said.  Pritty  soon  he  put  on 
his  hat  an'  wint  away  —  widout  a  word ;  an' 
I  ain'  seen  him  since.  Whin  he  was  gon',  Ang'la 
an'  me  talked  more  'bout  what  you  said  —  me 
feelin'  I  couldn'  stan'  t'  do  it  an'  all  the  while 
somethin'  in  me  tellin'  me  I  couldn'  stan'  not  t9 
do  it.  'Jest  l'ave  me  t'  t'ink  till  avenin','  I  says — 
knowin'  I  had  t'  decide  whither  we  was  t'  till 
lies  t'  ivrywan  about  wheer  Ang'la  was,  or  t' 
till  the  trut'  an'  help  save  other  girls.  An' 
come  avenin',  I  wint  over  t'  the  church  t'  set  a 
while  in  the  quiet  an'  say  me  prayers  an'  ask 
A'mighty  God  t'  sind  me  some  sign.  I  flit  like 
that  man  in  the  Bible  I'm  after  hearin'  preached 
about,  wan  time  —  I  t'ink  'twas  Abraham.  He 
was  goin'  t'  kill  his  bye,  t'  show  his  fait*  in  the 
Lord  —  an'  whin  he  wasn'  wan  minute  from 
havin'  it  done,  the  Lord  told  him  niver  t'  min'  — 


JUST  FOLKS  337 

sure  he  could  see  he  mint  t'  do  it,  an'  that  was 
enough  —  a  sheep'd  do  instid.  I  —  I  dunno 
what  made  that  come  into  me  min',  but  I  t'ought 
mebbe  if  I  could  be  willin'  t'  sacrifice  Ang'la, 
if  I  could  mane  that  well,  I'd  git  a  sign  from 
God  A'mighty  that  he'd  save  thim  other  girls  wid- 
out  makin'  me  put  the  black  mark  o'  shame 
on  mine.  Was  that  wrong  ?  I  prayed  an'  I 
prayed,  but  I  couldn'  git  no  feelin'  that  it'd 
be  all  right  agin  I  didn'  do  it.  So  thin  I  done 
the  stations  o'  the  Cross,  an'  I  raymimbered 
how  the  blissed  Saviour  prayed  that  same  way, 
too ;  but  it  couldn'  be,  an'  he  wint  on  t'  death 
t'  save  the  world.  It's  bitterer'n  death  t'  me  — 
but  I  got  t'  do  it!" 

Ferris  had  turned  away  to  hide  the  emotion 
he  could  not  control.  Beth's  tears  were  falling 
furiously.  But  Mary  Casey,  past  the  point  of 
tears,  was  dry-eyed.  Dull  red  burned  on  the 
high  cheek-bones  of  her  thin  face;  and  the 
majesty  that  sublime  acquiescence  gives  was  in 
the  poise  of  her  toil-bent  figure. 

The  crashing  thud  of  balls  in  the  bowling  alley 
continued  without  ceasing;  the  shuffling  of 
dancing  feet,  the  pounding  out  of  ragtime 
from  the  gymnasium  piano,  the  repeated  false 
starts  of  the  Caruso  (formerly  De  Reszke) 
Society,  the- whirring  and  clicking  and  tooting, 
were  in  full  activity;  "the  reclamation  of  the 
masses"  was  going  forward  vociferously.     But 


338  JUST  FOLKS 

only  Beth  and  Ferris  knew  that  in  the  Settle- 
ment's well-nigh  deserted  entrance  hall,  a  poverty- 
ridden  woman  who  could  not  read  her  name/was 
making  for  humanity  a  bigger  sacrifice  than 
humanity  would  ever  comprehend. 

"Mary,"  said  Beth  when  she  could  command 
herself  to  speak,  "you  —  you  are  a  great  woman  ! 
I  —  when  I  think  of  you,  Mary,  dear,  I  can 
only  think  how  God  must  love  you  —  how  — 
how  proud  of  you  He  must  be  !" 

But  such  was  the  greatness  of  Mary  that  she 
could  not  understand.  "D'ye  t'ink  He  knows 
I've  tried?"  she  begged  wistfully.  And  then 
her  tears  came. 

There  was  time,  then,  for  only  a  brief  conference 
about  what  should  be  done  to-morrow  to  begin 
the  prosecution  of  those  who  had  entrapped 
Angela.  Then  Mary,  unwilling  to  stay  too  long 
away  from  home,  said  she  must  go.  But  before 
she  went,  she  wanted  to  see  the  Head  Resident 
for  a  minute,  about  some  work  she  was  to  do  at 
the  Settlement  that  week. 

While  Mary  was  gone,  Beth  and  Ferris  talked 
rapidly,  planning  a  campaign  of  action.  They 
were  in  the  midst  of  it  when  the  street-door  was 
rather  violently  flung  open,  and  a  gaunt  youth, 
breathing  hard  as  if  pressed  in  pursuit,  came 
into  the  hall.     It  was  Mikey  ! 

Beth  had  tried  to  interest  Mikey  in  some  of  the 


JUST  FOLKS  339 

Settlement  activities.  It  was  not  an  easy  under- 
taking, but  Mikey  had  consented  to  come  a  few 
times,  especially  on  Monday  nights,  when  he 
knew  Beth  was  there.  It  was  late,  to-night, 
though,  for  any  of  the  things  Mikey  ever  cared 
to  do  at  the  Settlement ;  and  he  had  about  him  an 
air  so  different  from  his  usual  doggedness  as  to 
be  quite  startling. 

"Mikey  !"  cried  little  Beth,  jumping  to  her  feet. 

The  sound  of  her  voice  seemed  to  rouse  Mikey ; 
he  was  like  one  who  had  fled  thither  in  a  night- 
mare and  now,  waking  slowly,  could  not  remem- 
ber why  he  had  come. 

M I  —  I  —  is  it  too  late  ? "  he  began  to  stammer, 
backing  toward  the  door. 

There  was  a  wild  light  in  his  eyes,  such  as 
Beth  had  never  seen  there  before.  Inwardly, 
she  quailed  before  it ;  but  there  was  no  irresolution 
in  her  manner  as  she  stepped  quickly  up  to  him 
and  said :  — 

"Have  you  been  drinking,  Mikey  ?"  It  was 
her  fear  and  Mary's  that  in  the  idleness  of  the 
strike  Mikey  would  "take  to  drink." 

"No'm."  Mikey's  sullen  manner  was  return- 
ing. 

"Fighting?"  As  often  as  they  had  discussed 
the  strike  —  she  and  Mikey  —  they  had  agreed 
that  the  one  thing  a  man  that  loved  his  union 
must  not  do  was  to  bring  discredit  on  it  by  any 
deed  of  violence. 


34°  JUST  FOLKS 


"No'm. 


?> 


"  Then  what  —  ?  Mikey  !  What's  the  matter 
with  your  coat  —  your  hands  ?" 

"Aw,  nothin' !"  cried  Mikey,  impatiently. 
And,  jerking  open  the  door,  he  was  gone. 

"Wasn'  that  my  Mikey?"  Mary  Casey 
had  returned  just  in  time  to  see  the  boy  lurch 
out. 

"Yes.  Before  I  had  a  chance  to  tell  him  you 
were  here,  he  went  away  again." 

"What'd  he  want  ?     Was  he  huntin'  me?" 

"  I  don't  know  —  I  started  to  ask  him,  and 
he  went  without  answering.  He  seemed  ex- 
cited—" 

Mary  looked  anxious.  "I'll  hurry  an'  come 
up  wid  him,"  she  said,  starting  for  the  door. 
As  she  reached  out  to  open  it,  it  was  opened 
from  without,  and  a  small  boy  of  the  neigh- 
borhood rushed  past  her,  wide-eyed  with  ex- 
citement. 

"Peter  de  Greek  is  murdered  in  his  store!" 
he  cried,  as  he  sped  through  the  hall,  intent  on 
creating  sensations  in  each  separate  assembly  at 
the  Settlement. 

Mary's  knees  trembled  —  she  swayed  —  and 
Ferris  caught  her.  Beth  dropped  back  weakly 
into  her  chair.  For  a  moment,  each  one  of  the 
three  avoided  the  others'  eyes.  Then  Mary 
staggered  to  her  feet. 


JUST  FOLKS  341 

"What' re  ye  goin'  t'  do  ?"  she  asked ;  and  her 
tone  was  a  challenge.  Refusing  Ferris's  con- 
tinued support,  she  stood  across  the  doorway 
as  if  to  intercept  pursuit  of  her  boy. 

"Do  ?"  Beth  echoed.  "Is  there  anything  to 
do?" 

Mary  seemed  reassured  by  Beth's  dazed  answer. 
"Sure  there  is  not!"  she  declared.  "We  dunno 
what  happened,  at  all,  an'  'tis  no  place  av  ours 
t'  say  annythin'." 

Then  Beth  began  to  comprehend.  "You  may 
be  sure  I  shan't  say  anything,  until  we  know 
more,"  she  said. 

"An'  him  ?"  nodding  toward  Ferris.  "Thim 
that  write  fer  papers  is  awful  keen  fer  news  o' 
blood." 

Beth  looked  appealingly  at  Ferris. 

"I  can't  stop  what  comes  to  light,"  he  said. 
"I  may  be  forced  to — " 

"What  could  force  you  —  ?" 

The  sound  of  voices  made  Beth  jump  to  her 
feet.  "The  thing  for  all  three  of  us  to  do," 
she  said,  "  is  to  get  out  of  here,  quick,  before  people 
come  here  discussing  the  murder  and  asking 
questions." 

Out  in  the  street  it  seemed  more  possible  to 
think. 

"Mary,"  said  Beth,  "unless  Mikey  was  seen, 
there's  nothing  to  bring  suspicion  on  him  as  the 
—  the  one  who  may  have   killed   the   Greek. 


342  JUST  FOLKS 

It  isn't  as  if  it  were  tomorrow  night,  after  we 
had  made  the  charge  against  the  Greek.  Now, 
nobody  knows  but  us  ;   and  we  — " 

"  Ain'  goin'  t'  till,"  Mary  broke  in ;   and  there 
was  desperate  defiance  in  the  way  she  said  it. 


XIX 

Beth  and  Ferris  walked  home  with  Mary, 
partly  because  they  hated  to  leave  her  alone 
in  her  terrible  anxiety,  and  partly  because  they 
felt  they  must  know  if  Mikey  had  gone  home. 

"Perhaps  I  just  thought  he  seemed  excited," 
Beth  said;  "perhaps  it  was  what  you  had  been 
telling  me,  that  made  me  think  of  it  And  I 
suppose  he  left,  that  way,  because  I  asked  him 
questions."  She  dared  not  tell  Mary  what  she 
had  thought  she  saw  on  Mikey's  hands  and  coat. 

Mary  made  no  reply;  she  dared  not  hope  as 
much. 

"If  he's  not  here,"  she  said,  when  they  came 
to  the  top  of  her  flight  of  stairs,  "I'll  come 
right  back  an'  let  ye  know.  If  I  don'  come  back 
ye'll  know  'tis  all  right." 

When  she  had  gone  down  the  creaking  steps 
and  disappeared  in  the  blackness  below,  Beth 
and  Ferris  had  their  first  opportunity  to  speak 
what  was  on  their  minds. 

"I  don't  see,"  Beth  began,  quaking  nervously, 
"how  I  can  stand  it  for  Mary,  for  Mikey,  for  all 
of  us,  if  he  has  done  this  thing.  Not  that  I 
think  it's  any  shame  to  rid  the  world  of  that 
Greek!     But  the  Law  will   hold  it  criminal  — 

343 


344  JUST  FOLKS 

and  what  we'll  have  to  go  through,  makes  me 
sick  at  heart  to  think  about. 

"  I  won't  let  you  go  through  it !  There  are 
limits  to  what  I'll  see  you  stand.  You'll  just 
have  to  —  " 

Beth  sighed  impatiently.  "Don't  be  silly  — 
please  ! "  she  entreated  wearily.  "  If  Mary  and 
Mikey  have  it  to  go  through,  what  can  keep 
it  from  weighing  like  lead  on  me  ?" 

Mary  was  gone  so  long,  they  began  to  hope. 
But  presently  her  step  was  heard,  heavy,  on  the 
stairs ;  she  was  dragging  herself  with  difficulty 
to  the  sidewalk  level. 

"  He  haven't  come,"  she  whispered,  "  an'  I 
dassent  l'ave  the  childern  know  what  fear  is  in 
me  heart." 

"If  he  doesn't  come  home  to-night,  will  you 
send  one  of  the  children  over  to  tell  me,  first 
thing  in  the  morning?"  Beth  asked.  "And 
meanwhile,  Mr.  Ferris  and  I  will  go  over  to 
Blue  Island  Avenue,  and  see  if  we  can  find 
out  there,  or  at  Maxwell  Street  Station,  if  any 
suspicion  points  to  Mikey.  If  they're  after  him, 
we'll  hurry  back  and  tell  you.  If  we  don't  come 
back,  you  may  know  that  —  so  far,  at  least  — 
they  haven't  suspected  him." 

Over  on  the  Avenue,  a  curious  crowd  was  col- 
lected as  close  to  the  store  of  Peter  the  Greek 
as  the  police  guard  would  permit.  Backed  up 
to  the  curb  was  the  patrol  wagon,  awaiting  the 


JUST  FOLKS  34S 

grewsome  burden  for  the  morgue.  An  officer 
Beth  knew  was  standing  beside  the  wagon  steps, 
and  of  him  she  inquired,  as  casually  as  she  could, 
about  the  murder. 

"Can't  make  out  much  about  it,  so  far," 
he  told  her.  "It  was  a  knife  affair — "  Beth 
shuddered  when  she  thought  of  Mikey's  hands. 
"An'  they're  quiet,  you  know.  There  was  people 
in  the  store,  gettin'  soda  and  candy  and  ice- 
cream —  quite  a  few  of  them.  That  fella  that 
says  he's  Peter  the  Greek's  brother  was  workin' 
the  fountain.  He  run  out  o'  somethin',  an'  Peter 
went  back  to  that  place  behind  the  partition, 
where  they  unpacked  fruit  an'  kept  supplies,  t' 
git  it.  He  didn'  come  back,  an'  he  didn'  come 
back ;  so  the  brother  —  or  whatever  he  is  — 
went  to  get  the  stuff  himself.  An'  there  this 
Peter  lay,  with  his  heart  stuck  through.  The 
electric  piano  was  goin'  so  loud  they  didn'  even 
hear  'im  fall.  An'  the  back  door  was  standin' 
open." 

"Does  the  brother  —  or  whoever  he  is  — 
know  anybody  who  —  who  might  have  done  it  ?" 

"He  ain'  sayin'  anythin'.  Them  Greeks  is 
terrible  close-mouthed,  an'  they  lie  fer  one  an- 
other like  a  pack  o'  thieves.  He  may  have 
stuck  the  knife  in,  hisself.  That  bunch  o' 
boys  an'  girls  he  called  in  when  he  foun'  the  body 
—  as  he  says  —  wouldn'  have  sense  enough 
among  'em  t'  know  if  he  acted  most  surprised  or 


346  JUST  FOLKS 

guilty.     Anyway  we'll  have  to  hold  him  till  we 
know." 

"You  have  no  other  clew  ?" 

"Not  yet  —  that  I've  heard  of.  It  on'y 
happened  a  half  an  hour  ago." 

Still  further  to  satisfy  Beth,  Ferris  went  into 
Maxwell  Street  Station  before  they  returned  to 
Liza's.  His  newspaper  connection,  and  his  fre- 
quent presence  in  the  vicinity  where  Miss  Tully 
lived  —  both  well  known  to  the  Maxwell  Street 
force  —  gave  him  abundant  excuse  for  an  inter- 
est in  the  murder.  What  Beth  hoped  they  might, 
at  this  propitious  time,  find  out,  was  whether 
the  police  had  any  definite  ideas  about  Peter 
as  employed  in  the  traffic  in  girls.     They  had  ! 

"I  guess  he  was  a  pretty  tough  citizen,  all 
right,"  the  desk  sergeant  opined  to  Ferris, 
"and  got  only  part  of  what  was  comin'  to 
him." 

"How's  that?" 

"Oh,  he  was  mixed  up  in  a  dirty  trade,  without 
doubt.  We  ain't  never  had  no  specific  charge 
against  him  —  them  charges  is  hard  to  get  — 
but  I  s'pose  some  poor  devil  has  tried  to  avenge 
his  girl  and,"  confidentially,  "I  kind  o'  hope 
he  gets  away  with  it." 

"That  settles  our  case,"  remarked  Beth  as 
they  went  on  their  way.  "We  can't  prosecute 
Peter,  now  —  he's  gone  where  his  case  is  known. 
And  any   mention   of  him   in   connection   with 


JUST  FOLKS  347 

Angela  Ann  would  bring  suspicion  at  once  on 
Mikey." 

"Don't  you  think  Mikey  did  it  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  he  did." 

"Then  —  why,  Beth!  You're  an  officer  of 
the  Law." 

Beth  winced.  "I  know  I  am,"  she  said,  "but 
I'm  not  going  to  say  anything  to  put  Mikey  in 
jeopardy.  That  Greek  is  well  made  way  with  — 
the  world  is  better  without  him.  Mikey  has 
never  had  a  chance  in  this  world ;  do  you  think 
I'm  going  to  put  his  neck  in  a  noose  and  see 
him  sent  out  of  the  world,  for  driving  a  knife 
into  the  black  heart  of  that  Greek  ?  Besides,  I 
don't  know  that  he  did  it.  Suppose  he  didn't ! 
Suppose  I  tell  the  police  what  I  surmise,  and 
they  get  him  —  and  don't  get  anybody  else. 
You're  a  newspaper  man ;  you  know  how  such 
things  go  !  And  if  he  did  do  it,  for  Angela,  I'll 
have  more  hope  of  Mikey  than  I've  ever  had 
before  —  poor,  sluggish,  unawakened  Mikey.  If 
he  cared  that  much,  he  has  more  in  him  than  I 
dared  to  hope." 

Ferris  listened  to  her  without  trying  to  in- 
terrupt. When  she  had  quite  evidently  come 
to  the  end  of  her  plea  —  pleading  with  herself, 
he  knew,  as  much  as  with  him  —  he  said :  — 

"Beth,  you  were  hired  to  uphold  the  law, 
not  to  interpret  it.  Judges  decide  what  law 
ought  to  be;   you  belong  only  to  that  arm  of 


348  JUST  FOLKS 

law  and  order  which  enforces  statutes.  You 
have  no  right  whatever  to  decide  what  you  think 
the  law  ought  to  be ;  you  are  under  oath  to  en- 
force it  as  it  is.  This  is  the  thing  I've  always 
told  you  would  prove  to  you,  some  day,  that 
women  have  no  business  fooling  with  the  law. 
You  are  all  sentimentalists.  It  isn't  in  you  to 
have  respect  for  the  law  as  an  abstract  thing, 
to  care  above  everything  to  maintain  it  in  its 
integrity.  Your  pity  is  greater  than  your  sense 
of  justice;  you  want  to  make  an  exception  of 
each  individual  case.  There'd  be  no  law,  if  you 
had  your  way  !  You'd  make  and  unmake  it  for 
each  separate  offender.  Natural  law  ought  to 
teach  you  better.  Nature  makes  no  exceptions. 
You  have  neither  legal  nor  logical  authority  to 
interpret  the  law  for  yourself ;  you  are  sworn  to 
uphold  it  as  it  has  made  itself  out  of  generations 
of  demonstrated  expediency." 

Beth's  eyes  flashed.  "I'm  tired  of  expedi- 
ence!" she  cried  hotly.  "I'm  tired  of  stand- 
ing by  and  seeing  Mary,  and  others  like  her, 
stagger  under  unbearable  burdens  of  woe,  and 
hearing  you,  and  others  like  you,  talk  about  the 
law  and  about  the  hand  of  God.  I  believe  God 
hates  such  hypocrisy  !  I  believe  He  is  sick  at 
heart  because  we  stand  around  and  prate  about 
expediency,  and  don't  rush  in,  mad  with  the 
desire  to  ease  suffering.  I'd  be  ashamed  to 
think  about  God,  if  I  turned  against  Mary  now  !" 


JUST  FOLKS  349 

Ferris  was  very  quiet  —  his  tones  were  omi- 
nously low  and  even,  betokening  the  grip  he 
was  exercising.  "If  you  perjure  yourself,"  he 
replied,  "you  will  only  delay  Mary's  heartbreak. 
For,  if  Mikey  did  what  you  fear  he  did,  and  you 
shield  him,  and  he  goes  free,  will  his  respect  for 
the  law  be  very  great  ?  Will  an  experience  like 
this  help  him  to  be  a  good  citizen,  to  be  very 
mindful  not  to  break  other  laws  ?  You  know  it 
won't !  Will  it  be  good  for  Johnny  —  for 
Dewey  —  ?" 

"Talk  !"  interrupted  Beth,  sharply,  "all  talk  ! 
If  I  tell  on  him,  what  kind  of  a  citizen  will  he 
be  ?  If  he  is  hanged,  or  sent  to  prison  for  life, 
will  Johnny  and  Dewey  be  better  for  it  ?" 

They  were  at  Beth's  door,  now,  and  she 
seemed  about  to  enter  abruptly,  without  saying 
good  night. 

"Wait  a  minute  !"  Ferris  commanded.  Beth 
hesitated  in  the  doorway.  "You  have  decided 
for  yourself,"  he  said,  "but  you  cannot  decide 
for  me." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  mean  that  I  know  as  much  as  you  do  — 
saw  and  heard  the  same  evidence.  If  the  ques- 
tion comes  to  you,  you  may  lie — " 

"But  you  won't !" 

"No,  I  don't  believe  I  shall.  I'm  as  sorry 
for  Mary,  for  Mikey,  as  you  are ;  but  I  can't  see 
that  it  is  right — " 


3  so  JUST  FOLKS 

Beth  slammed  the  door. 

Everything  was  still  in  Liza's  rooms,  and  Beth 
was  intensely  grateful  that  she  could  slip  into 
bed  without  being  questioned. 

Of  course  she  could  not  sleep.  Weariness 
closed  her  heavy  eyes,  but  no  merciful  uncon- 
sciousness would  come.  Over  and  over  and 
over  in  her  mind,  she  turned  the  possibilities. 
Like  Mary,  she  hoped  for  a  sign.  But  none 
came. 

As  soon  as  she  could  get  a  cup  of  coffee,  in 
the  morning,  she  was  away  to  Henry  Street, 
without  waiting  for  word  from  Mary. 

Mikey  was  not  there. 

Crafty  in  the  defence  of  her  offspring  was 
Mary,  like  any  other  natural  mother.  In  the 
long  watches  of  that  dreadful  night  when  she 
and  Angela  Ann  had  sat  in  the  kitchen  —  strain- 
ing their  ears  to  hear  every  footfall  on  the  board 
walk  between  the  houses,  hoping  against  hope 
that  Mikey  would  come  —  Mary  had  talked  in 
whispers  to  the  girl  of  what  they  must  do  if 
Mikey  did  not  come. 

"We  can't  till  thim,"  the  mother  said  nod- 
ding toward  the  bedrooms  where  the  children  lay 
asleep.  "We  wouldn'  want  t'  till  this  why  we 
t'ink  he  done  it;  an'  'tis  better  annyway  fer 
thim  t'  know  nothin'.  Then,  agin  theer  ast 
quistions    they'll   nade   t'    till    no   lies  —  which 


JUST  FOLKS  351 

same  is  partly  fer  the  sake  o'  theer  souls  an' 
partly  because  I  misdoubt  the  kin'  o'  lies  they 
might  be  able  t'  till." 

Mary  spoke  as  if  appealing  to  the  girl's  judg- 
ment for  confirmation ;  but  it  was  only  the 
craving  of  her  mother  heart  for  understanding 
from  her  child,  that  made  her  speak  so.  For 
her  mind  was  inflexibly  made  up  to  defend 
Mikey  at  any  cost. 

Angela  Ann,  however,  easily  agreed ;  it  was 
the  menace  of  her  future  that  she  agreed  all  too 
easily,  bent  all  too  unresistingly  to  any  will 
stronger  than  her  own  —  which  it  was  hard  for 
any  will  not  to  be.  A  bit  of  thistle-drift  was 
Angela;  and  would  have  no  life  "but  as  the 
wind  listeth."  Which  made  it  the  more  im- 
perative that  she  should  be  kept  where  only 
gently  favoring  winds  blow. 

"I'd  made  up  me  min'  t'  till  wheer  ye'd  been, 
so  we  could  git  the  hound  o'  hell  that  took 
money  fer  yer  poor  little  soul,"  Mary  went  on, 
still  whispering,  "but  yer  brother  have  took 
wingince  into  his  own  han's,  I'm  feared.  'Tis 
our  business,  now,  t'  kape  as  still  as  death 
'bout  wheer  you  been  —  so's  no  wan  nade  sus- 
pect our  Mikey-bye  o'  doin'  it." 

To  Beth,  when  she  came  to  Henry  Street 
about  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  Mary  repeated 
all  this,  behind  a  closed  door. 

"There's  this  about  it,  Mary,"  Beth  reminded 


352  JUST  FOLKS 

her,  "if  they  don't  suspect  Mikey,  and  don't 
prosecute  any  one  else  —  who  may  be  innocent ! 
—  it'll  all  work  out  well  for  Angela's  good  name. 
But  if  they  get  Mikey  and  try  him,  he'll  have 
a  chance  to  get  off  if  it's  known  what  the  mur- 
der was  committed  for." 

"What  d'ye  mane?" 

Beth  explained. 

"Th'  unwritten  law,  d'ye  call  it  ?  I  should 
t'ink  it'd  be  written  big  in  ivry  book  that  tills 
the  law;  fer  sure  'tis  written  in  the  heart  of 
ivry  man  —  ivry  rale  man  —  that  live." 

Beth  thought  best  not  to  tell  Mary  what 
weight  of  sentiment  there  was  opposed  to  the 
"unwritten  law."  If  she  had  that  to  learn  in 
bitter  experience,  it  would  not  help  her  any  to 
know  about  it  now;  it  was  better  for  her  to 
hope  that,  even  if  Mikey  were  caught  and  tried, 
he  might  be  gently  judged  because  of  the  motive 
for  his  crime. 

So  they  agreed  that  nothing  should  be  said 
about  Angela's  experience  unless  Mikey  were 
brought  to  trial  for  the  death  of  the  Greek. 

"If  they  don'  git  him,  will  he  dare  t'  come 
back,  by  an'  by,  d'ye  t'ink  ?"  With  the  weight 
of  worst  apprehension  lifted,  Mary's  heart  was 
wistful  for  her  boy's  return. 

"That's  what's  bothering  me,  Mary  dear," 
Beth  answered.  "I  —  I  don't  like  the  idea  of 
Mikey   hiding   from   justice  —  I    don't   like   to 


JUST  FOLKS  353 

think  where  he  may  be  or  what  he  may  be 
doing  to  escape  the  police.  It's  an  awful  life  — 
that  dodging.  Even  if  Mikey  went  to  the  coun- 
try —  which  he  wouldn't  be  likely  to  do,  because 
he  knows  so  little  about  country  ways  —  he'd 
never  feel  safe ;  every  time  he  saw  any  one  look- 
ing at  him,  he'd  feel  sure  he  was  recognized  — 
found  out.  And  a  strong  character  couldn't 
stand  that ;  and  we  know  Mikey  isn't  strong. 
If  he  has  stayed  in  the  city,  or  gone  out  on  the 
road  with  hoboes,  he  hasn't  a  chance  for  his 
soul's  life.  He'd  be  better  off  in  jail,  Mary  dear, 
standing  trial  like  a  man  for  a  man's  deed,  than 
skulking  in  such  company  as  he  could  get  into 
in  his  present  plight." 

"Sure,  I  niver  t'ought  o'  that !"  Mary  cried, 
dazed  by  the  dreadfulness  of  this  alternative. 
"I  dunno  what  I  t'ought  he'd  be  doin',  but  I 
niver  pictured  t'  mesilf  thim  t'ings  ye  till  about. 
'Tain't  as  if  theer  was  annywan  on  top  o'  God's 
earth  a  bye  could  go  to  —  knockin'  on  theer  door 
in  dead  o'  night  an'  sayin'  'L'ave  me  in  an'  try 
t'  pertect  me,  fer  though  I've  done  wrong,  I 
mane  t'  be  good.'  Theer's  no  wan  that'd  under- 
stan'  a  bye  like  that  —  is  theer  ?" 

Then  it  flashed  on  Beth  why  Mikey  had  fled 
to  her  !  He  believed  —  not  reasoning,  doubt- 
less, but  having  some  dim  intuition  —  that  she 
would  understand.  And  he  had  come  to  her  in 
his    plight,    and    she    had    failed    him.     Tears 


2A 


354  JUST  FOLKS 

blinded  her,  and  she  hid  her  face  from  Mary  as 
from  one  that  she  had  betrayed. 

"What  is  it,  darlin'  ?"  the  older  woman  en- 
treated, kneeling  beside  the  girl  and  soothing 
her  maternally.  "  YeVe  stood  too  manny  o'  me 
troubles  !  'Tain't  in  nature  you  should  stan' 
'em  like  I  kin,  not  havin'  had  the  practice. 
Don'  cry,  Miss  Beth  dear  —  t'ings  '11  come  right, 
somehow.  God  do  be  kapein'  of  us  all,  an' 
He'll  do  right  by  thim  that  niver  mint  no  harm. 
An'  sure,  I'm  glad  'tis  Him  that  have  it  all  t'  do, 
not  me;  fer  wan  minute  I'm  of  wan  min',  an' 
the  nixt  I'm  of  another.  I  hope  it  don'  worry 
God  A'mighty  —  all  the  diffrunt  t'ings  I  do  be 
prayin'  Him  t'  do  !  Sure,  'tis  a  good  t'ing  He 
know  His  own  min'  all  the  while  —  fer  I'm  like 
the  mayor  o'  Lim'rick,  I  dunno  mesilf.  All 
night  I'm  prayin',  wild-like :  '  Don't  let  thim 
git  me  bye ! '  An'  now  me  heart  is  burstin' 
wid  th'  prayer  that  Mikey'll  be  foun'  —  to- 
day!" 

While  Mary  talked,  Beth  so  far  recovered  her 
self-control  as  to  ponder  whether  she  would  add 
to  Mary's  grief  or  lighten  it,  by  telling  Mary 
why  she  wept.  It  was  that  sturdy  honesty  in 
her  which  scorned  to  conceal  her  own  fault, 
that  made  her  tell ;  and  it  proved,  as  admissions 
so  made  usually  do  prove,  a  bond  of  deeper 
sympathy  between  herself  and  Mary.  It  is  the 
people  who  are  never  willing  to  be  blamed  or  to 


JUST  FOLKS  355 

be  felt  sorry  for,  who  never  accomplish  real 
service  for  others. 

It  seemed  to  Beth  that  if  she,  in  Mary's  place, 
suddenly  realized  how  terribly  a  girl,  professing 
the  deepest  concern  for  Mikey's  welfare,  had 
failed  him  at  the  crucial  moment  of  his  life,  she 
would  turn  on  that  girl  scathingly  and  denounce 
her  for  the  poor,  weak  thing  she  was.  But  Mary 
had,  apparently,  no  such  impulse  —  did  not  even 
have  it  to  conquer. 

"It  would  have  been  gran',''  she  admitted, 
"if  you  could  'a'  held  'im — "  and  there  was  a 
wistfulness  in  her  face,  in  her  voice,  that  almost 
broke  Beth's  heart  —  "but,  Saints  above!  ye 
couldn'  know  it  then  !  Ye  didn'  know  what  he 
had  done ;  an'  if  ye  had,  yer  first  t'ought  would 
'a'  been  like  mine,  —  t'  lit  'im  git  away.  Don' 
blame  yersilf,  Miss  Beth  dear !  We  can't  be 
born  knowin'  ivryt'ing;  'tis  on'y  whin  we  git 
chance  after  chance  t'  l'arn,  an'  don'  do  it,  that 
we've  anny  call  fer  blame.  I'll  bet  ye,  now, 
that  whin  the  nixt  bye  come  t'  ye  like  Mikey 
did,  ye'll  be  ready  fer  'im  !  An'  mebbe  —  God 
knows  —  he'll  be  wan  that'll  nade  ye  aven 
more'n  what  Mikey  did." 

So  Beth,  who  had  come  hoping  to  comfort, 
went  away  comforted.  She  had  several  cases  in 
court  that  day  and  she  had  a  lot  to  do  before 
court  time,  getting  together  witnesses  and  other- 
wise trying  to  serve  the  ends  of  justice  —  for  the 


356  JUST  FOLKS 

children.  "And  oh!"  Beth  reflected  as  she 
went  about  her  work,  "it  is  so  hard  to  know 
what  justice  is,  for  anybody."  But  her  long 
night's  vigil  had  brought  her  to  this,  in  a  world 
where  law  must  reign  —  as  law  reigns  in  all 
the  universe  —  there  could  be  no  justice  in 
trying  to  evade  the  law.  "If  we  could  only 
know  our  laws  are  right!"  she  felt,  "it  would 
be  so  much  easier  to  insist  that  they  must  be 
upheld  at  any  cost — "  nor  dreamed,  dear  little 
Beth  !  that  if  there  is  promise  of  emended  laws 
evolved  out  of  a  better  understanding  of  human 
nature  and  its  limitations  and  its  needs,  much  of 
the  world's  gratitude  therefor  must  go  to  such  as 
she. 

Her  mind  was  so  crowded  with  things  to 
think  about,  that  she  forgot  to  buy  a  morning 
paper.  But  Ferris  'phoned  to  her  as  soon  as  he 
thought  she  had  reached  the  court. 

"They've  got  Mikey,"  he  said. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"Haven't  you  read  the  papers  ?" 

"No." 

"Well,  they  picked  him  up,  down  town,  within 
a  few  minutes  after  he  left  the  Settlement.  He 
had  blood  stains  on  his  hands  and  clothes  —  you 
know  !  —  and  he  was  trying  to  keep  out  of  sight. 
And  when  taken,  he  could  not,  or  would  not, 
give  an  account  of  himself.  So  they're  holding 
him.     He  gave  a  fictitious  name  —  but  he'll   be 


JUST  FOLKS  357 

identified,  of  course,  as  soon  as  any  one  from  the 
John  Worthy  sees  him." 

"How  do  you  know  it's  Mikey  ?" 

"I've  seen  him.  The  murder  was  given  me 
to  '  cover, '  because  of  my  known  familiarity 
with  the  ward  and  conditions  there.  As  soon 
as  I  heard  of  this  'suspect'  that  had  been  taken, 
I  felt  sure  it  was  Mikey.  He  is  sullen  and  won't 
talk.  It's  an  awful  mix-up  for  me,  Beth  !  I 
hate  to  go  against  you,  to  take  the  matter  out 
of  your  hands ;  but  can't  you  see  ?  Think  of 
the  position  you  put  me  in  !" 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  Beth's  tongue  to  say: 
"Tell  who  he  is,  and  write  the  whole  story  for 
your  paper."  But  something  made  her  forbear. 
"Wait!"  she  said,  "and  I'll  come  down  during 
the  noon  recess.  Maybe  I  can  get  him  to 
confess." 

"That  is  too  late  for  our  paper,"  he  reminded 
her. 

"I'm  sorry,  Hart,"  she  answered  curtly, 
"but  it  is  Mikey  that  I'm  thinking  of  —  not  the 
paper  —  and  not  you  !" 

"And  you  won't  make  it  a  bit  easy  for  me  ?" 

Bitter  indeed  was  the  reply  that  rushed  to 
Beth's  lips.  But  she  checked  it,  unsaid,  and 
hung  up  the  receiver. 


XX 


At  noon,  Beth  got  on  the  Halsted  Street  car 
and  went  down  town.  Mikey  had  been  in  the 
Harrison  Street  Station  all  night,  but  was  sent 
over  to  the  County  Jail  in  the  morning,  after  a 
preliminary  " sweating"  in  which  he  had  refused 
to  give  any  account  of  himself,  satisfactory  or 
otherwise. 

It  was  visiting  day  at  the  jail,  and  in  the  room 
where  the  waiting  sit  the  gray  gathering  was  a 
numerous  one.  High  and  white  and  bare,  that 
room ;  and  round  its  sides  a  nearly  continuous 
wood  bench  broken  only  by  the  door  from  the 
street  and  the  opposite  door  into  the  jail.  Fast- 
locked,  every  moment  except  when  some  one 
was  passing  through,  that  jail  door  !  And  from 
behind  thick  bars  of  steel  in  a  cage  in  the  upper 
half  of  it,  a  jailer  looks  on  all  who  come,  and 
listens  to  their  pleas.  The  place  never  failed  to 
impress  Beth  deeply ;  but  to-day  it  appealed  to 
her  with  a  new  pitifulness.  The  waiting  faces 
were  so  gray  —  with  poverty's  pallor  and  with 
apprehensiveness.  The  sad-colored  livery  of 
poverty  was  so  depressing.  Elderly  women  — 
making,  perhaps,  their  first  call  upon  a  child  in 

358 


JUST  FOLKS  359 

prison  —  wept  silently  but  uncontrollably ;  little 
girls  of  eight  and  ten  years,  clothed  in  dun  and 
drab  tones,  carried  baskets  of  food,  copies  of 
cheap  magazines,  and  other  little  comforts,  every 
one  of  which  would  have  to  be  ruthlessly  ex- 
amined before  it  reached  the  prisoner  for  whom 
it  was  intended.  There  were  young  women 
there,  too  —  maids  and  young  wives  and 
mothers ;  and  here  and  there  among  them  one 
who  carried  the  flaunting  badge  of  vice.  And 
there  were  men  —  oldish  men,  for  the  most 
part  —  and  boys.  But,  as  everywhere  where  the 
sad  and  waiting  sit,  women  were  in  the  majority. 

Beth  asked  to  see  the  Jailer,  and  was  ad- 
mitted to  his  office. 

"Well,  well  I"  he  greeted  her  jovially,  "here 
we  are  again  !" 

He  was  a  big  man,  and  he  carried  the  look  of 
indisputable  authority  in  every  pound  of  his 
weight,  in  every  move  he  made ;  carried  it,  too, 
in  every  inflection  of  his  voice.  He  was  a  man 
of  iron,  and  proud  of  it.  And  he  never  failed 
to  relish  the  contrast  when  wee  Beth  —  fair- 
haired  and  childish-looking  —  presented  herself 
alongside  him  as  "another  arm  of  the  law." 

"I  tell  you,"  he  used  to  tease  her,  on  the 
occasions  of  her  rather  infrequent  visits  to  the 
jail,  "when  the  two  of  us  get  in  combination, 
sinners  had  better  look  out ! " 

Beth   liked   the   Jailer;     she    respected   him. 


36o  JUST  FOLKS 

And  the  Jailer  liked  Beth  ;  under  all  his  raillery 
was  real  respect  for  her.  He  pretended  to  think 
she  was  a  weak  little  sentimentalist;  but  he 
knew  she  could  do  more  with  boys  than  any  one 
else  who  ever  came  into  the  jail.  She  pretended 
to  think  his  one  delight  in  life  was  getting  people 
to  lock  up ;  but  she  knew  there  was  never  any 
one  more  glad  than  he  when,  with  reasonable 
regard  for  public  safety,  he  could  order  the 
great  steel  door  swung  open  to  let  an  imprisoned 
wretch  go  free. 

"Well,"  he  chuckled,  "what  white  woolly 
lamb  of  your  acquaintance  have  we  got  here 
to-day  —  mistaking  him  for  a  black  sheep  ?" 

Beth  tried  to  answer  back  in  kind,  but  she 
was  so  troubled  that  the  effort  was  a  poor  one. 

"Why,  Officer !"  (he  always  called  her  "Offi- 
cer"—  it  sounded  so  absurd),  "you  look  un- 
usually grave — " 

"Do  I  ?  Well,  I  have  to  ask  you  a  big  favor 
—  and  I'm  scared." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  Turn  my 
back  and  not  look  while  your  lamb  escapes  ? 
The  guards  'd  get  him  !" 

"No  —  please!"  Beth's  tone  was  pleading, 
and  he  saw  that  she  was  very  serious.  "You 
have  here  a  suspect  in  last  night's  Greek  murder 
in  my  ward." 

"I  don't  know  —  have  we  ?" 

"Yes;    he   was   brought   here   this   morning. 


JUST  FOLKS  361 

He's  quite  young,  I'm  told  —  I  think  he  may 
be  one  of  my  boys.  I  want  to  talk  with  him 
and  I  don't  want  to  have  to  do  it  through  those 
awful  double  gratings.  What  I  want  to  say  to 
him  —  to  ask  him  —  could  never  be  said  like 
that.  I  want  to  sit  down  by  him,  and  talk  to 
him  very  privately  —  if  he's  the  boy  I  think  he 
is.  I  don't  care  if  you  lock  us  both  in  a  cell, 
and  post  a  guard  at  the  door  to  watch  —  but 
let  me  get  near  that  boy  !" 

No  one  knew  better  than  Beth  did  how  much 
this  was  to  ask.  No  one  knew  better  than  she 
did,  how  easily  the  jail  might  be  demoralized  if 
such  breach  of  necessary  discipline  were  often 
made.  Even  with  all  the  watchfulness  that  was 
exercised,  she  knew  how  "flakes  of  coke"  (co- 
caine) were  smuggled  in  in  magazines,  between 
two  pages  lightly  gummed  together;  how  files 
and  saws  could  be  concealed  in  bread  and  in 
bananas,  and  escape  the  detection  of  any  but 
the  most  argus-eyed ;  how  even  the  double 
grating  of  steel,  small-meshed  and  with  eighteen 
inches  of  space  between  the  screen  behind  which 
the  prisoner  stood  and  the  screen  in  front  of 
which  his  visitor  was  stationed,  was  not  sufficient 
to  keep  the  ingenious  from  supplying  liquor  to 
a  prisoner  —  by  means  of  a  tiny  tubing  of 
rubber,  one  end  of  which  was  in  a  bottle  of 
whiskey  in  the  caller's  pocket,  and  the  other  end, 
temporarily  stiffened  for  eighteen  inches  or   so 


362  JUST  FOLKS 

by  a  little  willow  switch,  poked  through  the 
steel  meshes  to  reach  thirsty  lips.  If,  despite 
steel  screens  and  watchful  guards,  things  like 
this  could  be  accomplished,  it  was  not  to  be 
expected  that  freer  intercourse  with  a  prisoner 
could  be  lightly  granted.  In  jail,  as  elsewhere, 
those  whose  merits  were  above  the  average  and 
whose  intentions  were  unquestionably  good,  had 
to  suffer  the  rigors  of  the  law  made  for  those 
who  were  below  the  average  in  merit  and  had 
intentions  unquestionably  bad. 

But  Beth  got  her  desired  opportunity.  It 
was  dinner  hour.  The  various  squads  of  prison- 
ers —  divided  off,  as  well  as  was  possible,  in 
grades  of  depravity  and  long-continued  vicious- 
ness  —  were  returned  from  the  exercise  pens  to 
their  cells  to  be  fed.  The  Jailer  found  out  where 
the  Greek  murder  suspect  was,  and  ordered  that 
if  he  had  a  cell-mate,  he  was  to  be  transferred 
temporarily  to  an  unoccupied  cell.  When  this 
was  done,  he  led  the  way  and  Beth  followed  him. 

Mikey  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  his  cot, 
staring  vacantly,  unseeingly,  at  the  wall,  three 
feet  away.  He  turned  an  apathetic  look  on 
Beth  when  she  stopped,  close  to  the  cell  door, 
and  spoke  to  him. 

"Mikey!"  she  pleaded,  "I  want  to  come  in 
and  talk  with  you  —  I  want  to  help  you.  I  am 
so  sorry  —  so  terribly  sorry,  I  didn't  understand, 
last   night  —  that   I   let    you   go   away,   angry, 


JUST  FOLKS  363 

when  you  needed  me  so.  I  hope  you'll  forgive 
me,  Mikey,  and  let  me  talk  to  you  now.  Will 
you,  Mikey?" 

For  a  moment,  Mikey  did  not  answer  —  did  not 
appear  as  if  he  even  heard.  Then,  "Theer's 
nuttin'  t'  talk  about,"  he  said  sullenly. 

"There's  everything  to  talk  about !  If  you 
could  have  seen  your  mother,  Mikey  —  last 
night,  and  this  morning  !  If  you  could  know 
as  I  know,  what  she's  suffering,  you'd  see  that 
there  is  everything  to  talk  about.  Won't  you 
hear  what  I've  got  to  say  to  you,  even  if  you 
have  nothing  to  say  to  me  ?" 

Again,  Mikey  made  no  answer.  But  Beth  saw 
in  his  face  the  signs  of  softening.  She  nodded, 
over  her  shoulder,  to  the  Jailer,  and  he  stepped 
forward  and  unlocked  the  door,  then  locked  it 
after  her  when  she  had  slipped  inside. 

Sitting  on  the  cot  beside  Mikey,  she  began  to 
plead  with  him. 

"  I  tell  ye,  I  didn'  kill  no  Greek,"  he  kept  saying 
doggedly. 

Beth  pleaded  all  the  advantages  of  confession. 
She  tried  to  go  over,  in  detail,  the  conversations 
with  his  mother,  last  night  and  this  morning. 

"I  tell  ye,  I  didn'  kill  no  Greek,"  he  reiterated. 

Beth  even  told  what  the  desk  sergeant  at 
Maxwell  Street  had  said  about  the  Greek. 
"And  every  one  will  feel  the  same  way,  Mikey," 
she  said.     "  Especially  when  it's  known  how  much 


364  JUST  FOLKS 

you've  had  to  stand,  what  a  hard  fight  yours  has 
been,  people  will  judge  you  gently,  Mikey  dear. 
Just  stand  up  and  say  you  did  it,  and  tell  why. 
If  you  don't,  they'll  try  you  —  there'll  be  big 
expense  to  the  state  —  and  in  the  end  you  won't 
get  as  much  sympathy,  because  of  all  the  trouble 
you  have  made." 

"I  tell  ye,  I  didn'  kill  no  Greek." 

"And  listen,  Mikey  !  I've  been  to  see  the 
man  you  used  to  drive  for — "  Here  Mikey 
showed  his  first  gleam  of  real  awakening.  "And 
he  says  —  I  pleaded  with  him  to  take  you  back, 
but  he  feels  pretty  sore  about  the  strike,  and  he 
refused  —  he  says  that  if  I  can  get  you  any  other 
job,  to  drive,  and  the  new  employers  want  to 
buy  a  horse,  he'll  let  them  —  have  Ginger  for 
you." 

To  Beth's  intense  surprise,  Mikey  began 
to  sob. 

"What  is  it,  Mikey  ?"  she  entreated.  "What 
is  it?" 

He  flung  himself  face  downward  on  the  cot, 
and  shook  with  sobbing. 

Beth  slipped  to  the  floor  and  knelt  beside  him, 
her  face  close  to  his.  "Mikey!"  she  whispered, 
entreatingly,  "can't  you  tell  me?  Can't  you 
see  how  much  I  want  to  help  you  ?" 

Slowly,  as  if  every  word  were  wrung  from  him 
in  agony,  and  muffled  by  the  deep  burial  of  his 
face  within  the  hollow  of  his  outstretched  arms 


JUST  FOLKS  365 

Mikey  answered,  "I  —  hurt  —  the  fella  —  that 
was  —  drivin'  —  Ginger  !" 

"You  hurt — "  Beth  began,  repeating  after 
him  uncomprehendingly.  Then  light  broke  upon 
her.     "When?     Last  night?" 

"Yes." 

"Just  before  you  came  to  me  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"And  you  weren't  near  the  Greek's,  at  all  ?" 

"No'm." 

"Oh,  Mikey!  Why  didn't  you  tell  this 
before?" 

"I  —  couldn'.  An'  annyway,  they  wouldn' 
listen  t'  me.  They  kep'  askin'  me  t'ings  I  didn' 
know  nuttin'  about." 

"Where  were  you  when  you  hurt  the  boy?" 

"Down  town — "  Mikey  sat  up,  now,  and 
started  to  talk  more  freely  —  much  more  freely, 
indeed,  than  Beth  had  ever  heard  him  talk. 
It  was  as  if,  now  that  he  had  begun,  his  relief 
was  so  great  that  he  could  hardly  say  enough  — 
only,  the  habit  of  years  made  speech  difficult. 
He  was  like  a  mariner,  rescued  after  long  isola- 
tion from  all  human-kind ;  full  of  desire  to  talk 
and  be  understood,  but  almost  without  speech 
to  express  himself. 

"I  was  huntin'  work  all  day,"  he  went  on, 
"after  Ang'la  come  home.  I  had  t'  have  work, 
an'  I  couldn'  git  none.  When  it  was  supper-time, 
I  wouldn'  go  home  'n'  eat  no  more  o'  what  Ma 


366  JUST  FOLKS 

earned  scrubbin'.  'Whin  I  git  work,  I'll  go 
home  to  'em,'  I  says  t'  mesilf,  'an'  not  before.'" 

Mikey's  evident  pride  in  this  decision  was  so 
great  that  Beth's  heart  ached  as  she  thought 
how  little  he  understood  his  mother,  how  little 
his  mother  understood  him,  and  at  what  pitiful 
cross  purposes  poor  human  natures  play  even 
when  each  is  trying  to  do  what  seems  best  and 
most  unselfish  to  him. 

"About  nine  o'clock,  I  guess,"  Mikey  went  on, 
"I  was  lookin'  fer  a  place  t'  sleep,  down  by  the 
freight  sheds,  whin  I  —  whin  I  seen  —  Ginger. 
He  —  he  seen  me  before  I  even  seen  him.  An' 
I  was  talkin'  to  him  whin  —  the  fella  that  drives 
him,  now,  come  out  an'  tol'  me  t'  l'ave  the 
horse  be.  I  —  I  dunno  jest  what  happened, 
but  I  know  I  hit  'im  —  in  the  nose  —  an'  it  bled 
—  an'  he  hollered  —  an'  I  run  —  t'  you.  I  was 
goin'  t'  till  you  —  'count  o'  havin'  promised  ye 
I   wouldn'   strike   no  blow,   whativer   I   done." 

"And  I  was  stupid,  Mikey,  and  began  to  ask 
you  questions  instead  of  waiting  to  hear  what 
you  came  to  say.  If  you  could  know  how  bad  I 
feel  about  the  way  I  acted  !  I  might  have  saved 
so  much  suffering  !" 

But  Mikey  seemed  to  have  no  resentfulness ; 
neither  regret  for  what  his  mother  had  undergone, 
nor  distress  over  what  had  happened  to  him. 

"They  got  me  whin  I  was  comin'  back  down 
town,"  he  said,  "an'  began  t'rowin'  it  into  me 


JUST  FOLKS  367 

about  some  dago.  I  told  'em  I  didn'  know,  an' 
I  t'ought  they'd  soon  fin'  out  I  didn'.  An' 
whin  they  ast  me  about  me  han's  an'  coat  —  like 
you  done  !  —  I  toP  nuttin'.  That  man  Gooch 
that  lives  by  your  house,  he's  the  right  sort ! 
He  says  t'  me,  after  that  t'ing  happened  between 
him  an'  Slosson,  he  says  —  whin  I  told  him  I'd 
be  glad  if  it  was  me  got  the  chanst  t'  kick  Slosson 
clean  t'  Hell,  he  says,  'No  !'  he  says,  'I'd  be  glad 
if  God  A'mighty'd  take  him  an'  all  his  kin' 
an'  put  thim  wheer  they  belong,'  he  says,  'but  I 
don'  want  t'  be  the  man  that  makes  labor's 
battle  harder  by  drawin'  blood,'  he  says.  'The 
rights  o'  the  workin'  min,'  he  says,  'is  the  on'y 
rights  in  this  world  that  has  been  won  widout 
blood  an'  battle.  Fightin'  only  sets  us  back,' 
he  says.  He  talked  t'  me  pretty  fine  —  that 
man  did  !  That  little  kid  o'  his  ought  t'  be  a 
good  man,  you  bet !  An'  I  wasn'  goin'  t'  l'ave 
him  —  ner  you  —  t'ink  low  o'  me  by  knowin' 
what  I  done.  But  I  dunno  —  seemed  like  I  run 
t'  you  widout  meanin'  to.  An'  so  —  d'ye  t'ink 
he'll  have  t'  know,  too  ?" 

"Not  if  we  can  help  it,  he  won't !  But  if  he 
does  know,  I'm  sure  he'll  understand  —  as  I 
do,  Mikey.  Now  I  must  go.  I  hope  we  can 
get  you  out  of  here  so  you  can  go  home  to-night. 
And  if  we  do,  I  want  you  to  promise  me  one 
thing;  swear  it  on  whatever  is  most  sacred  to 
you  —  that  you  won't  try  to  help   your  mother, 


368  JUST  FOLKS 

another  time,  by  staying  away  from  home  and 
not  telling  her  where  you  are  ! " 
Mikey  promised. 

"Now,"  finished  Beth,  when  she  had  told  all 
this,  rapidly,  to  the  Jailer,  "if  only  that  murder 
mystery  unravels  itself  a  bit,  so  Mikey  can  go 
home." 

But  Mikey  was  not  as  madly  impatient 
about  being  free  as  many  persons  in  like  circum- 
stances might  have  been.  And  meantime,  it 
was  a  tremendous  relief  to  Beth  to  have  this 
story  of  his,  which  she  fully  believed,  however 
far  from  believing  it  the  police  authorities  might 
reasonably  be. 

Beth  had  not  time  to  go  over  to  Mary's  on  her 
return  from  the  Jail.  She  had  no  time  for 
luncheon,  either,  except  for  a  banana  and  a  bun, 
eaten  in  an  ante-room  while  she  waited  for  her 
cases  to  be  called.  But  before  she  thought 
of  eating,  she  scrawled  a  note  to  lift  the  suspense 
in  Henry  Street  —  trusting  that  Angela  Ann  or 
some  of  the  children  might  be  there  to  read  it. 
"I  have  seen  Mikey  and  he  did  not  do  it,"  the 
note  said.  "Everything  will  soon  be  all  right. 
Don't  worry.  I'll  be  over  after  court."  A  boy  in 
Ewing  Street,  when  Beth  offered  him  a  dime 
to  take  this  note  to  Henry  Street,  looked  at  her 
as  if  he  thought  she  were  either  drunk  or 
crazy,  then  pocketed  the  dime  and  sped  away 


JUST  FOLKS  369 

before  she  could  have  time  to  repent  her  reck- 
lessness. 

Hart  Ferris  came  into  court  before  the  session 
was  over.     His  face  was  beaming. 

"Beth,"  he  said  —  and  there  was  contrition 
in  his  look  and  in  his  tone  —  "you  don't  know 
how  glad  I  am — " 

Beth  looked  mystified.  She  thought  he  had 
heard  about  her  interview  with  Mikey,  and  she 
wondered  how.  "Have  you  seen  Mikey?" 
she  asked. 

"Not  since  this  morning.     Have  you  ?" 

"Why,  yes ;   I  saw  him  at  noon." 

"At  noon  ?     He  didn't  know  then  ?" 

"Know  what  ?" 

"Why,  Beth!     I  thought  you   knew — " 

"Thought  I  knew—?" 

"Yes ;  the  man  who  killed  the  Greek  is  found." 

"He  is?" 

"And  has  confessed." 

"He  has?" 

"It  was  as  the  desk  sergeant  surmised,  last 
night—" 

"Some  father—?" 

"Yes  —  learned  it  was  through  the  Greek 
his  girl  had  gone  into  —  into  what  Angela  went 
into  —  and  so  he,  not  knowing  how  to  prosecute, 
became  his  own  avenger." 

"And  has  told  his  story  ?" 

"Yes." 

2B 


370  JUST  FOLKS 

"  It  will  go  easy  with  him  ? "  Beth's  sympa- 
thies had  travelled,  in  a  flash,  to  another  home 
whereon  the  gloom  would  settle  as  it  lifted  from 
the  Caseys'. 

"Oh,  surely." 

"  But  even  at  the  easiest  —  ! "  Beth  shook  her 
head.  Instead  of  Mary,  in  that  outer  room 
where  the  gray  waiting  sit,  there  would  be  another 
woman,  white-faced  and  heavy-hearted.  If  only 
there  could  ever  be  in  this  close-knit  world  a 
pure  joy,  unmixed  with  any  thought  of  some  one 
else's  woe ! 

As  soon  as  she  could  get  away,  they  went 
over  to  Henry  Street.  Mary  was  getting  ready  to 
go  down  town  to  scrub — fixing  a  bit  of  supper  for 
the  children  to  eat  at  six  or  seven  or  whenever 
they  felt  most  like  it.  Angela  Ann  stood  idly 
by,  watching  her  mother  half-interestedly.  It 
was  going  to  be  dull  at  home,  for  Angela  Ann  — 
safe  and  kind,  but  very,  very  dull.  Beth  thought 
of  that,  the  moment  she  saw  Angela  standing 
there ;  back  in  her  home,  but  not  of  it.  No  ! 
in  no  sense  of  it  as  the  others  were,  even 
Mikey.  Beth  wondered  how  long  the  girl  would 
stay. 

"Don't  go  down  town  to-night,  Mary,"  she 
pleaded.  "We  must  find  some  other  way  than 
for  you  to  scrub  at  night.  I'm  going  over  to  the 
corner  to  telephone  and  ask  if  Mikey  will  be 
home  to  supper.     If  he  comes,  we  must  have  a 


JUST  FOLKS  371 

celebration.  We  ought  to  have  had  one  last 
night,  for  Angela ;  but  we  were  all  so  troubled 
yesterday.  To-night,  if  Mikey  comes,  we'll 
have  a  grand  jubilee  for  both  returns.  Angela, 
will  you  come  with  me  and  help  me  ?" 

On  the  way  to  the  Avenue  and  back,  Beth 
noticed  that  the  acquaintances  of  Angela  they 
met  had  a  sceptical  bearing.  They  were  told 
that  Angela  had  been  working  as  nurse-maid  for 
a  lady  who  had  taken  her  to  the  country.  (This 
was  the  story  Mary  had  consistently  told  since 
Angela's  disappearance.)  But  not  many,  it  was 
evident,  gave  credence  to  the  story. 

"Lose  yer  job,  Ang'la  ?"  shouted  one  youth 
at  her  from  a  distance  of  a  hundred  feet  or 
more.  Angela's  effort  at  bravado  was  pitiful 
to  see;  and  the  youth's  wink  and  leer  were 
revolting. 

"Angela's  got  to  be  taken  out  of  this  neighbor- 
hood, quick  !"  was  Beth's  mental  calculation  as 
they  hurried  on  their  errand. 

She  got  the  Jailer  on  the  'phone.  Mikey  had 
started  for  home  some  little  time  ago.  So  she 
and  Angela  bought  the  feast,  Angela's  listlessness 
dropping  from  her  like  a  blanket. 

Beth  made  the  most  possible  of  the  occasion  in 
the  way  of  excitement,  knowing  that  excitement 
was  what  Angela's  poor  little  soul  craved. 
The  crowning  extravagance  was  a  big  water- 
melon, "ice  cold,"  which  the  grocer's  boy  carried 


372  JUST  FOLKS 

home  for  them,  creating  a  small  sensation  in 
Henry  Street  where  whole  watermelons  were  of 
infrequent  occurrence. 

When  they  got  back  to  the  house,  Mikey  was 
there.  Mary  wanted  Beth  and  Mr.  Ferris  to 
stay  to  supper,  but  Beth  said  no.  "It  is  a  long, 
long  time  since  you  all  sat  down  to  a  meal  to- 
gether, and  I  think  you'll  be  happier  just  by 
yourselves,"  she  said.  "But  I'll  be  over  early 
in  the  morning,  Mary,  for  I've  a  world  of  things 
to  talk  to  you  about.  I  wish  you'd  talk  over  some 
of  them  among  yourselves,  this  evening.  One 
thing  I'm  almost  sure  I  can  manage  within  a 
very  few  days  is  to  get  Mikey  a  job  —  driving. 
And  I  have  hopes  —  you  know,  Mikey,  what  I 
told  you  this  morning  !  Then  we've  got  to  think 
how  we  can  get  Angela  just  the  nicest  job  that 
ever  was,  in  some  pleasant  place  where  she 
can  work  with  lots  of  young  folks  and  have  real 
good  times.  And  Mary,  I  believe  this  is  the 
time  for  you  to  move.  While  Angela  was  away, 
you  wouldn't  think  of  it,  for  fear  she'd  come 
back  and  fail  to  find  you.  But  now  that  you're 
all  together,  I  think  you  ought  to  get  out  of  this 
cellar  and  get  a  better  place  to  live  and  for 
Angela  to  ask  her  friends  to.  I  know  where  we 
can  borrow  money  to  pay  for  the  moving  and  the 
advance  rent.  Mikey  can  sign  papers  to  pay  it 
back  out  of  his  wages,  and  the  man  that  lends 
it  won't  charge  any  interest.     Now,  you  talk  all 


JUST  FOLKS  373 

these  things  over  —  and  I'll  see  you  in  the 
morning." 

Mary  went  with  them  as  far  as  the  bottom  of 
the  stairs  leading  to  the  sidewalk.  "Ain't 
it  wonderful,"  she  said,  wiping  the  tears  of  happi- 
ness and  gratefulness  from  her  eyes,  "how  t'ings 
has  worked  out  fer  me  an'  mine  ?  An'  d'ye  min' 
what  I  said  las'  night  'bout  prayin'  fer  a  sign  I 
didn't  nade  t'  make  Ang'la  ashamed  ?  Ain't 
it  wonderful  how  the  sacrifice  was  took  off  of 
me  an'  laid  on  another  ?  You'll  be  goin'  t'  see 
that  man  that  done  it  —  won'tye  ?  An'  if  theer's 
annythin'  in  all  the  world  I  kin  do  t'  help  'im 
er  his  fam'ly,  ye'll  be  sure  to  lit  me  do  it  —  won't 
ye,  darlin'  ?" 

Beth  promised,  and  Mary  went  back  to  spread 
the  feast  of  rejoicing. 

Beth  and  Ferris  dined  in  Hull  House  restaurant. 
Up  to  the  moment  when,  their  order  given,  they 
sat  facing  one  another  across  the  black  oak 
table,  neither  of  them  had  said  a  word  about  last 
night's  difference. 

Better  than  anything  Ferris  could  possibly 
have  pleaded  in  his  extenuation,  was  the  un- 
mistakable look  he  wore  of  one  who  has  been 
sore  beset.  Beth  had  noted  it  in  a  moment; 
it  spoke  volumes  to  her,  and  stirred  her  swift 
forgivingness. 

When  their  waitress  had  gone,  Ferris  looked 


374  JUST  FOLKS 

across  at  Beth  and  tried  to  smile ;  it  was  a  wan 
effort. 

"This  has  been  an  awful  day,"  he  said. 

Beth  nodded  briskly;  she  was  always  brisk 
when  she  was  fearful  of  her  self-control. 

"I  was  like  Mary,"  he  went  on;  "I  kept 
praying  for  a  sign  I  needn't  do  it ;  but  the  sign 
didn't  come  —  and  I  remembered  what  she 
said.  I  could  see  me  losing  you  forever,  if  I  tpld 
on  Mikey  —  I  had  visions  of  Mikey  hanged,  and 
Mary's  heart  broken,  and  you  hating  me.  I 
didn't  know  I  was  made  of  such  stern  stuff  — 
but  the  —  the  other  thing  wouldn't  go !  I'm 
not  looking  for  sympathy  —  but  I  want  you  to 
know  it  wasn't  any  easy  thing  for  me  to  stand 
against  you  —  " 

"I  never  supposed  it  was  easy,"  said  Beth, 
gently,  "but  I  couldn't  understand  why  you  felt 
you  must  do  it.  I  thought  you  ought  to  care 
more  about  Mary  and  Mikey  —  and  I  thought 
you  ought  to  care  more  about  me." 

Ferris  smiled  tenderly.  "I  thought  I  ought 
to,  too,"  he  said,  "that  was  the  strange  part  of 
it !  But  I  suppose  '  I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so 
much,  loved  I  not  honor  more.' " 

"I  know,"  said  Beth.  "You  had  to  be  true  to 
yourself  —  we  all  have  to.  I  was  hurt  —  but  in 
my  'deepest  deepmost  heart'  I  don't  suppose 
I  ever  thought  of  loving  you  less  because  you 
couldn't    see    things   just    exactly    as    I    do.     I 


JUST  FOLKS  375 

believe  we  see  things  alike  almost  as  much  as  is 
safe  in  a  partnership  —  don't  you  ?  If  there's 
never  a  bit  of  difference,  two  are  no  better  than 
one  —  are  they  ?     And  I  —  I  think  two  are  /" 

After  dinner  was  over,  they  walked,  in  the 
summer  dusk,  up  one  teeming  street  and  down 
another  —  trying  to  decide  where  they  would 
most  like  to  find  a  four-room  flat. 

For  "reporters  can't  marry  and  live  in  an 
apartment,"  as  Ferris  said,  "but  any  working 
man  who  likes  the  Nineteenth  Ward  can  marry 
and  live  in  a  flat." 

"And  we  wouldn't  take  an  apartment  anywhere 
else,  if  it  was  endowed  —  would  we  ? "  asked  Beth. 

"What's  the  use  of  living  away  from  where 
all  your  friends  live?"    he    answered    happily. 

Toward  nine  o'clock  they  went  back  to  Max- 
well Street.  Hannah  Wexsmith  was  sitting  on 
the  door-step  in  the  shadow  of  Monahan's  side- 
walk display. 

"Slosson,"  she  told  them  quite  triumphantly, 
"is  comin'  home  to-morrow."  Home!  To  the 
room  where  he  had  never  cast  anchor  to  the  ex- 
tent of  so  much  as  a  "Sunday  collar-button"  ! 
And  he  would  never  pay  the  back  rent,  nor 
ever  be  cured  of  "the  failin'."  But  he  had  been 
Hannah's  burden  and  anxiety  for  eight  long  years, 
and  she  had  been  lonesome  without  him,  though 
when  he  was  there  they  seldom  spoke. 


376  JUST  FOLKS 

Joe  Gooch  was  sitting  in  his  "front"  room, 
minding  his  baby  and  reading  Hannah's  evening 
paper.  Mamie  and  Clarence  were  out.  Beth 
stopped  at  the  open  door  to  tell  Joe  what  Mikey 
had  said  about  him  that  morning,  and  the  way 
Joe's  face  lighted  with  tender  pride,  was  beautiful 
to  see. 

"Thank  ye  fer  tellin'  me,"  he  said.  "I  guess 
mebbe  you  don't  know  jest  how  much  I  needed 
that."  ' 

The  Slinskys'  door  was  open,  too  —  they  were 
more  neighborly  and  less  sensitive,  of  late  — 
and  Dinah  heard  Beth's  voice  in  the  hall  below 
when  she  was  talking  to  Joe  Gooch.  She  was 
waiting,  when  Beth  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
to  speak  to  her. 

"I  had  a  lovely  letter  to-day  from  Mrs.  Brent," 
said  Dinah,  "and  she  sent  her  best,  best  love  to 
you.  She  seems  to  be  very  happy,  and  she 
says  she  hopes  to  be  here  some  time  this  fall." 

Liza  and  Adam  Spear  were  on  their  respective 
sides  of  the  kitchen  table ;  Liza  sewing,  and  Adam 
reading  the  paper.  Beth  and  Ferris  told  them 
all  the  news. 

Liza  was  particularly  interested  in  the  way 
Mary  Casey  had  been  spared  the  bitterness  of 
publishing  Angela's  shame. 

"Seems  like  God'd  made  up  his  mind  that 
woman  had  been  tried  about  enough  —  don't 
it  ?"  she  remarked.     "I  s'pose  some  folks'd  call 


JUST  FOLKS  377 

it  chance  —  all  chance !  But  when  you  live 
real  close  t'  people  an'  know  lots  about  their 
lives,  the  ways  o'  Providence,  it  seems  t'  me,  is 
pretty  plain." 

"And   the   unbelieving   people    are   the   ones 
who  don't  'live  close,'"  said  little  Beth. 


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Burning  Daylight 

Illustrated.     Decorated  cloth,  i2tno,  $1.50     (October,  igio) 

By  JACK  LONDON 
When  God  Laughs 
Illustrated.   Decorated  cloth,  i2tno,  $1.50.    (November,  igio) 

By  E.  V.  LUCAS 

Mr.  Ingleside  Decorated  cloth,  i2mo,  $1.35  net 

(September,  igio) 

By  STEPHEN  REYNOLDS 

Alongshore      Where  Man  and  the  Sea  Face  to  Face 
With  Eight  Illustrations  from  Photographs  by  Melville  Mackay 

Decorated  cloth,  i2mo,  $1.50 

By  MABEL  OSGOOD  WRIGHT 

Author  of  "Poppea  of  the  Post-Office," 
"The  Garden  of  a  Commuter's  Wife,"  etc. 

Princess  Flower  Hat  Decorated  cloth,  i2mo,  $1.50 

(November,  igio) 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS,  64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOBK 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  50  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.00  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


JUL  12    1937 


3Au?mvr 


~  -  ,-  *•- — *    ""* 


JUL  22  1868 


SENT  ON  ILL 


JUN  0  8  1994 


SENT  ON  ILL 


OCT  2  5  1994 


U.  C.  BERKELEY 


LD  21-100ro-8,'34 


IB  33179 


912908 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


